


Interlude V

by Guede



Series: Theory [11]
Category: Hornblower (TV), King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Baking, Bickering, Birthday, Brotherly Bonding, Class Differences, Cooking, Dating, Derogatory Language, F/M, Families of Choice, First Time, Food Sex, Getting to Know Each Other, Guilt, Humor, Internalized Misogyny, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Poverty, Temperature Play, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:20:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28414533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede
Summary: The lines between past and present and future are more smudgy than a five-year-old's finger painting.
Relationships: Arthur Castus/Guinevere/Lancelot, Galahad (King Arthur 2004)/Mariette (Hornblower), Gawain/Tristan (King Arthur 2004)
Series: Theory [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2058675
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	1. Winter Wonderland

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LiveJournal in 2005-2006.

Lancelot walked into Guin’s office while still batting the snow from his hair. He hadn’t been in a particularly good mood and just coming to work had already made it twice as bad: he’d slipped on a patch of ice in the parking garage and had only avoided planting his nose in concrete by badly wrenching his arm with his grab for his car’s side-mirror. “Today’s going to be terrible.”

“Of course it is,” she snapped. At least, he presumed it was her—she was hunched so far down behind her computer monitor that he couldn’t even see her. He could just hear the frantic clicking of the computer keys. “Arthur was born at eleven tonight.”

He blinked. After a moment, he got his mind to understand that no, this fact was not incompatible with the fact that Arthur was thirty-six years old. It was just spectacularly badly worded on Guin’s part. “Oh. His birthday’s today? He didn’t mention it.”

“That’s because his official birthday is listed as being in March. His real birthday’s tomorrow, and he’s entirely too paranoid and I _only_ know because Tristan just called to inform me not to open the package he was leaving on the front step tomorrow even if it was leaking.” If tones could be used as levers, then Guin’s probably could have flipped the earth into the next galaxy, it was strung so tightly. The top of her head briefly peeked above the computer. “You are getting him a gift.”

It was also going to be a very long day, Lancelot decided. Just then Guin’s espresso machine went off. She didn’t seem to be getting up any time soon, and he needed something to help him face said day, so he helped himself. “Well, obviously.”

One computer key was banged so hard that he was surprised it didn’t ricochet into the ceiling. “Lounging in bed with no clothes and a jar of chocolate sauce does not qualify as a proper birthday gift.”

As a matter of fact, Lancelot hadn’t considered that and felt rather wounded that Guin would think so lowly of him. Then he remembered that it was Guin. He downed the espresso like it was a tequila shot—obviously he needed to wake up faster. “That’s something I know he appreciates.”

“You will _not_ do that, you lazy-arsed pissant. You do not qualify as a gift by yourself,” Guin ground out. She did something with her mouse that made its cable slash out like a bullwhip.

“Don’t I?” Lancelot meant it as a joke.

Five seconds later, he’d beat a precipitous retreat to his own office and was wondering where Guinevere had gotten the fiery red glare. He hadn’t seen her that bad since the time she’d accidentally gotten hot-pepper juice in her eyes.

“Well, so much for her sense of humor,” he muttered, sitting down. The stitches in his shoulder pinched a little, but he ignored them. They were coming out in two days, and not a moment too soon; they were about as eager as he was.

Right. Gift for Arthur. That couldn’t be too difficult.

Except thirty minutes later, Lancelot decided that it was, in fact, that difficult. Part of the problem with dating Arthur was that he’d been an orphan and then after college, he’d been in a profession that strongly discouraged attachments. And after that, he hadn’t had any serious relationships, which all meant that he’d been extremely self-sufficient for…twenty years of his life. He’d already bought everything he needed, and most of the things he wanted.

Someone knocked on the door, and Lancelot looked up just in time to stop himself from telling them to bugger off because it was Pellew. “Sir?”

“Just on my way to a meeting. I was wondering if you were done with the report on the Brooklyn incident yet,” Pellew said.

“Oh.” Lancelot hastily stuck his fingers under the papers on his desk and ruffled them about. None of them belonged to the report in question, but the movement looked impressive. “I’m still waiting on the forensic lab’s report on where those diamonds originated. They’re being awfully slow…I suppose I’ll have to go down later.”

Pellew shook his head and withdrew. “No, no, I’m on my way to meet with the lab director anyway, so I’ll do it.”

“Thank you!” Lancelot called after the other man. Then he sat back and spent a few seconds desperately hoping that that indeed was the reason why that report had been held up. He had so many half-done ones on his desk that he couldn’t keep track of them anymore.

Not that that was his fault. After the whole mess on Thanksgiving, Guin had taken her hunt of the diamond smugglers to new extremes. Of course there was nothing wrong with that, but it was damned inconvenient to sit down and find out that she’d snitched half the evidence summaries he needed without even leaving a note. _He’d_ been the one to get shot and dumped in a cab by an Arthur in James-Bond mode—if anyone should be holding a personal grudge, it should be him.

Which, incidentally, he was. They’d all kissed and made up, but the chances of that actually settling the matter weren’t very good. For one, Clayton was still neatly evading every trap Interpol set for him. And for two, Arthur still hadn’t had time to sit down and tell them the story behind that bastard.

Granted, that wasn’t entirely his fault. When Lancelot and Guinevere weren’t running around trying to make sure nothing big and nasty happened over the holidays, they were coming home to an Arthur dozing with his face in a stack of finals papers. The one time Lancelot had managed to swing a visit to campus this month, he’d been nearly trampled by the mob of pleading students that trailed Arthur everywhere he went. A mob of extraordinarily short-skirted students, considering the recent cold snap…

“Who can take their Christmas cheer elsewhere. Never seen so many mistletoe barrettes in my life,” he snorted. He picked up a pen and stared at the desk. After a moment, he reached out and added a word to the report that was on top. “Speaking of which, it was hard enough thinking of enough stocking and tree gifts to match Guin. Goddamn it, Arthur. You would have your birthday at the…yes?”

“I’ve tracked down the right edition of the volume of Donne that he’s missing, so you can’t get that for him,” Guin said. She came in just far enough to slap a handful of files on his desk, some of which looked like ones he needed. “What are you doing?”

Lancelot stuck the pen-cap in his mouth, then took it out and used the pen to hook over a file. He smirked at Guin’s revolted look. “Well, if I have to _mark_ the damned files so you’ll know they’re mine…”

“We are not twelve and these are not cupcakes for you to stick your finger in the frosting. And you’re stalling.” She gave him a sweet smile, tossed her hair so it fell in shampoo-commercial waves, and pivoted to walk out. The set of her shoulders said all that needed to be said about her current opinion of him.

“I’m—I’m baking him a cake.” Lancelot paused. Then he sat back and made a note to himself that letting his mouth run on autopilot didn’t necessarily guarantee him a good answer. A…cake. He could cook, but cake was something he’d rather go out and buy than bother messing about with himself.

Guin apparently was thinking along the same lines because she turned at the door to shoot him a disbelieving look. “You. Are baking.”

“The best presents are homemade,” Lancelot retorted. The words were barely out of his mouth before he was wincing inside. Damn it, now he was committed, or Guin would never let him forget it. “And when I give it to him, his manners won’t let him leave before he’s at least sat down and had a piece. It’ll probably be the longest we see him till the semester ends.”

Guinevere opened her mouth, then closed it. She looked thoughtful in a way that had nothing to do with reassurance. “Well,” she serenely said. “That should be interesting.”

He made a face at her, but she shut the door before she started to giggle so he couldn’t mock her for it. Then again, she couldn’t see him give her the bird, which was probably better for the office furniture.

Interesting, his arse. It was a cake. Throw together some batter and slather frosting on top. He was smart, good at improvising, and he had an Internet’s worth of cooking websites to flip through. It couldn’t be that difficult.

* * *

Several hours later, Lancelot had successfully blitzed two reports to completion and used that plus some complaining about his shoulder to get himself an early dismissal. He’d have to come in on bloody Saturday afternoon, but Arthur was spending that entire day doing administrative work anyway so it would have been boring to stay home.

He looked at the island counter with a tiny bit of satis—all right, a large dose of satisfaction. He had a recipe. And Arthur’s kitchen had some _bizarre_ pieces of equipment tucked into the backs of cabinets, but that meant he could find everything he needed. He hadn’t even had to run out and buy anything. Stage one successfully completed.

Stage two—putting ingredients together. The ladyfinger crust was supposed to be painted with rum, but Lancelot didn’t have a paintbrush handy. He assumed real fingers and some careful pouring would work just as well, and it mostly did. A little splashed onto his tie…which was all the more reason for taking the stupid thing off. He left it hanging over the sink faucet and consulted the recipe for the next bit while licking his fingers. There was just enough rum on them to give his mouth a pleasant glow inside, and come to think of it, if this went well, maybe he should go on and do some eggnog as well…

Not being an idiot, he noted the implied step about separating all the eggs and decided he’d better do that first. No point in getting the chocolate melted and then rushing things.

The first two eggs went perfectly fine. The third egg was a right bastard: first the shell wouldn’t crack cleanly and then it suddenly crumpled between Lancelot’s fingers so he barely avoided getting shell shards in the whites. That one was no good—the white and yolk bled into each other—and that meant he was an egg short. Shit.

All right, not a problem. Lancelot washed off his hands, flipped out his cell phone and…cursed again because this one was so new he hadn’t programmed in all the numbers he needed.

Luckily, Arthur was anal-retentive about organizing his office. It only took thirty seconds to look up Tristan’s phone number; Lancelot dialed and switched to earphones so he could go back to separating eggs.

*…hello?*

“Gawain?” A quick check at the clock said it was only one-thirty. Bit of an odd time for Gawain to be over…maybe not. They both seemed like healthy young men, after all. “Is Tris—actually, never mind. Can you do a favor for Arthur?”

*Um…Sure. Wait.* Something rattled in the background and Gawain moved very quickly, but only managed to make more banging sounds. He sounded rather tired. *I mean, I can do it, but…does it have to be done right away?*

Well, this stuff had to chill for six hours, so that would be a yes. And fuck, there almost went an egg. It slipped out from between Lancelot’s fingers and squirted for the floor, but a fast grab snatched it back. Of course, that also yanked his cell off the counter so Lancelot had to twist around to barely catch it on his stomach. Pellew was starting to make noises about how fast Lancelot went through phones. “Preferably as soon as possible. Why, do you have to get dressed?”

*No! What—what--* Gawain coughed while the _static_ practically blushed. *What did he want done?*

“Oh, he just needs some eggs and he won’t have time to buy them himself. If you could grab a carton and drop them off here, that’d be perfect.” Climbing back up was a trick that required a couple seconds’ thinking. Lancelot shoved the earphone more firmly into his ear, then picked up the phone and put it back on the counter. Then he grabbed the edge and pulled himself back to his feet. His shoulder twinged. “I should be home by then to get them.”

Puzzled noise. *But the CallerID says you’re already there…that’s weird. Did Tristan program GPS into this thing…?*

Of all the fucking…never mind, think of something…Lancelot braced the bowl of whites against his free hand and then smacked the egg on the edge. It cracked cleanly—take _that_ , stupid poultry product. “Oh, I am, but I have to run out for an errand.”

*And there’s no grocery stores along the way?* Gawain sounded…more confused, but at least he didn’t sound accusing. Too bad he wasn’t less perceptive into the bargain.

“It’s not that kind of errand. It’s…a last trip to the doctor’s. Someone’s picking me up and dropping me off, and I can’t really ask them to make a side-stop because of how busy the office is today. I haven’t seen Guin since we drove in to work this morning.” And hopefully that would stop Gawain from asking more questions.

It did. Gawain mumbled an ‘Okay’ and hung up; Lancelot sighed in relief as he pulled over the sixth little bowl he’d gotten out and dumped the yolk into it. He supposed it had gone as well as it could have. Rather well, actually—he could have gotten Tristan, and Tristan wouldn’t have wasted time asking pointed questions, but instead would’ve jumped straight to the dry amusement.

Thank God for winter, Lancelot thought. The squirrels were hibernating now.

* * *

Lancelot opened the door, grabbed the bag Gawain was holding, and closed the door while saying a cheerful ‘Thank-you!’. It might have been rude, but he didn’t want to give Arthur bloody salmonella poisoning from the eggs, which were waiting on him.

He went back into the kitchen and cracked the last one, then wasted valuable time getting the others out of the refrigerator. Goddamn it, even if Arthur came home as late as he usually did, this cake was still going to cut it close.

Melt chocolate. A simple enough task, and one with which Lancelot was very familiar, but somehow he managed to burn it this time. He’d only stepped out for a second, and suddenly there was so much smoke he had to fling open the door to keep the fire alarm from going off. That resulted in an interesting set of conditions where his front roasted as he kept a close eye on his second batch and his back damn near froze. But at least he got the chips melted. He even remembered to mix a little of the chocolate in the bowl with each yolk before dumping the mess back into the saucepan so the yolks wouldn’t make gritty bits.

The other saucepan was a little…Lancelot grimaced, then dumped it in the sink. He could scrape it off later. Hopefully it was one of Arthur’s and not one of Guin’s; she treated her kitchenware like it was made of gold.

Add the whipped whites, and then into the fridge it went. Lancelot spent a moment stretching his arms above his head. Nearly all done. Now he just had to clean up and wait for it to set.

* * *

The clock said it’d been a half-hour. It probably would be a bad idea to poke at the filling, which would be just starting to set up now. It _looked_ a little thicker.

Lancelot rolled his eyes at himself and firmly shut the fridge door.

* * *

Two hours, and Lancelot had finished the work he’d brought home with him—Arthur-habit he’d apparently caught. He paced up and down in front of the fridge, muttering to himself to sit down and stop that.

Two hours and two minutes. Surely it’d gelled noticeably by now? He could take a peek…and let in warm air, which would make it take longer. As it was, he might have to cut the fridge time about forty minutes short and just hope Arthur liked oozing centers.

He was _not_ opening the door. He was not.

* * *

The last four hours had to be some of the longest of Lancelot’s life. He stared at the fridge.

“This is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous,” he told himself.

After a moment, he sat down on the floor in front of the fridge and pointedly turned his back on it. He wasn’t going to look.

* * *

Five hours. Whisking heavy cream, sugar and vanilla into whipped cream was a very therapeutic way to not think about the goddamned cake in the goddamned fridge. “Well, not really, but it’ll do,” Lancelot snorted.

It was a shame doing that didn’t take longer, but he wanted soft frosting-like cream, not stuff he could use as hair mousse. He reluctantly put down the bowl and…oh, to hell with it. Arthur was going to be home soon anyway. Lancelot would just take it out, check, frost the thing and stick it back in.

He was busy poking at the cake center when the door opened. He went stiff…and relaxed when he realized those footsteps could only be made by someone wearing high heels. Arthur wasn’t that kinky.

“Lancelot, you little pissant son of a bitch. You sloped off from work and…well. You did actually make one.” Guin stopped beside him and leaned against the counter. She watched as he sucked off the dab he’d gotten on his fingertip.

Still a little mushy in the center, but the rest of it felt firm enough, so Lancelot flipped the cake onto a nice glass platter and unlatched the pan sides. He elbowed Guinevere out of the way so he could get to frosting. “Cake with an intriguing pudding-like filling. Should remind him of you—ow! Hey! I almost flicked frosting in my eye!”

“I’m warmer than that,” she retorted, sashaying around him. She dropped off her purse and picked up the candles Lancelot had gotten out earlier. “My God. And is this one supposed to make him think of you?—no, that’s far too optimistic.”

Lancelot waved the spatula at her. “I have plenty of this left. It’d go nicely with your suit.”

She immediately backed up a few steps, one hand rising to dance over her spotless lapel. “So you’re giving him a hermaphrodite cake?”

“No. No, I’m giving him a deliciously decadent chocolate cake. Put those away—no point in reminding him how old he is. God knows he already worries too much about his legacy. Legacies.” The sour note that accidentally came out in that last word filled the silence between them as Lancelot moved the cake to the table. He stood back and looked at it.

Quite good, if he said so himself.

“Not bad,” Guin said, trailing over. She hefted the package beneath her arm. After a couple seconds of staring, she unwrapped it and pointedly pushed the book at Lancelot. “There. Wouldn’t want your eyes to pop completely out of your skull.”

“Well, it looks right, anyway.” Lancelot shrugged and sucked at the whipped cream on his fingers. He paused, then licked more thoughtfully. Very nice…and he still had a bit in the bowl—

When both Lancelot and Guin had finished regaining their balance, they were greeted by a puzzled-looking Arthur, who very much needed to stop walking so quietly. He tilted his head. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No, not really,” Guin blurted. Her arm bumped Lancelot as she shifted the book she was hiding behind her.

Lancelot would have moved, but that meant Arthur would see the cake. “You’re home early.”

“More like on-time for once. I finished grading the papers and Galahad offered to enter the grades for me.” Arthur rolled his shoulders beneath his coat, then looked dismayed at the light dusting of snow that left on the floor. He sighed and put his briefcase on the counter. Then he stopped.

Goddamn it. The bowl of whipped cream had attracted his attention and he wandered over to it. Guin glared at Lancelot, who shrugged and just yanked them around the table so they were still blocking the cake from view. What exactly did she expect him to do? Yell at Arthur to get away from it? Like that wouldn’t tell him something was up.

“Mariette’s staying late as well, so…oh, this is good. Are you making something?” Arthur asked.

“Well, yes.” That should have been followed by something else, but Lancelot was having the damnedest time thinking of what that should be. He frantically poked at his mind, demanding that it come up with something, but apparently it’d maxed out with Gawain. Lazy bastard. “You see…”

“We just thought…” Guin started at the same time.

Now Arthur looked worried. He came back over with the bowl still in hand, trace of cream on his finger. “What? Did something happen at work? Oh, you know, I have time now so did you want to talk about Clay—”

“Happy birthday,” Lancelot said. For some reason, he’d ducked his head so he was staring at the floor when he said it.

“You’re a year older,” Guin so-intelligently added. She brought the book around and poked it in Arthur’s direction, also dropping her head so her hair slid along Lancelot’s arm. “That’s not…that didn’t come out like…oh, what is it with you! I never have this problem with anyone else!”

Arthur’s feet shuffled a little closer. “I’m—wait. Will you hit me if I apologize?”

“Happy birthday. I…this is the right book, right?” Guin pushed it at him again.

After a moment, Arthur’s hand came out and took it. “Yes…if you mean is it the book I’ve been trying to get for years. Where did you…”

“You’re not the only one with secret sources.” That sounded a bit more like Guin, since it was rather smug. Her hands came out to take hold of the bowl, and Arthur’s hand went behind him, then came back empty.

Instead of reaching for Guin, it tipped up Lancelot’s chin. He pushed out of reach, then turned around to nod at the cake. “That’s for you.”

“You baked that?” Arthur said. He must have had an arm around Guin, because when he stepped closer, so did she. His hand touched Lancelot’s waist, then slid down over Lancelot’s hip.

“Well, there wasn’t actual baking involved,” Lancelot had to admit. He reached down and pulled Arthur’s hand over the front of his thigh, squeezing it. “But I did make it. And it tastes wonderful. You should try it.”

Arthur nodded in agreement and started to pull back, probably to get a spoon. Then he paused and gave Guin and Lancelot a very long, very odd look. Some decision clicked in his head and he reached past them for the cake…and hooked two fingers right in the center. He pulled them out, chocolate streaks nearly dripping to his cuff, and carefully nipped off some. His eyebrows rose. “This _is_ good.”

Then he smeared the rest across Lancelot’s face.

Lancelot blinked, then narrowed his eyes. “This might be your birthday, but I hope you don’t think you’ll get away—hey! Guin!”

“Stop talking and get down here,” she mumbled. Her hands were busy with Arthur’s tie and her mouth was giving Arthur’s fingers some very messy attention.

Guinevere could be annoying, but when she made sense, she made sense.

* * *

“Dripping in my bloody eyes, you toss—oh, _God_ , that’s cold!” Lancelot hissed, twisting against the floor. He tried to reach back and smack Arthur, but Guin grabbed his hands. She curved around him and dragged his wrists up between her legs so his fingers rubbed against her cunt, her mouth biting sharply at his jaw. “Little higher, would you?”

She made a muffled noise of irritation, but moved up to lick the running chocolate from his cheekbones before it blinded him. He felt around till he’d sussed out where her clit was and worked his fingertips over and around it in a figure-eight pattern that had her moaning too much to use teeth. And down below, Arthur was still streaking that chilly chocolate all over Lancelot’s thighs. He even used a ladyfinger to prod teasingly at the back of Lancelot’s balls. Lancelot humped himself up a little, trying to get his knees under himself, but then a hot tongue flattened itself between his buttocks. His knees skidded and his prick got painfully squashed as he went down.

“Excellent cake,” Arthur murmured, nuzzling higher to the small of Lancelot’s back. He slid his hand up against Lancelot so his thumb just nudged inside while his cold fingertips were grinding in the chill behind Lancelot’s balls.

The contrast was _killing_. It made Lancelot try to draw up and shove back down at the same time, and so he didn’t really go anywhere while Arthur thoroughly enjoyed his gift. He jerked again when Arthur pushed one sticky, cold finger all the way inside without any warning. “ _Arth--_ ”

And lost his voice because Arthur had taken advantage of Lancelot’s buck upwards to stick his head underneath and give Lancelot’s prick a few delicate licks. Lancelot shuddered, tried to say something to the effect that he was falling and collapsed before he could. Luckily, Arthur had fast reflexes.

He kept moving as well, pressing up and over Lancelot while his fingers made way for his prick that was incredibly hot compared to the chilled cake—mousse, whatever. Guin gave a little squeal and was suddenly dragged out of reach of Lancelot’s fingers; she lost her grip on his hands just in time for him to stiff-arm away her knee before it could smash her nose. Arthur was lying diagonally across Lancelot now and from the sounds Guin was making, thought her taste made a great accompaniment to the chocolate.

Well, Lancelot was willing to let that happen as long as…no, Arthur hadn’t forgotten. Arthur decidedly hadn’t forgotten, and it was all Lancelot could do to brace his arms against the floor and pant over them, rocking with the other man. The cold of the chocolate had faded to just an edging on the liquid fire that was currently streaming through his body, and that was just fine. That was great. That was absolutely, positively, wonderfully _perfect_ , and _Jesus_ , he loved this man. _Loved_.

And a little later, well into the sticky afterglow when he wasn’t distracted by sheer physicality: still loved him, inconvenient and complicated as it could be. Lancelot was happy Arthur was another year older because that meant another year ahead for them. Even though he wasn’t sure if he could get off the floor.

“Thank you,” Arthur murmured, the words long ragged things.

“Happy, happy birthday…huh. You know, this isn’t much different from sitting in bed naked with a jar of chocolate sauce,” Lancelot said. He was expecting the smack Guin gave him for that, but she was so worn-out that she barely ruffled his hair.

She dragged herself around so her head bumped his. “Oh, shut up. You’re ruining the mood.”

And Arthur was looking back and forth between them like he didn’t quite understand, but he leaned down to kiss them anyway.


	2. A Winter’s Tale

The snow was falling thickly outside, which made Arthur doubly glad that he and Lancelot were on their way out. His last day at work for the semester had been today, so they could head straight home and wait out the impending storm. That was, if Lancelot stopped trying to back them into dusty corners.

“The elevator’s the other way,” Arthur sighed, pushing the other man away for the umpteenth time. He had long since begun to regret asking Lancelot to pick him up; at the very least, Arthur should’ve filed his class grades first and called the other man second.

Lancelot lazily righted himself and hooked his hands in his pockets. He sauntered down the hallway just far enough ahead of Arthur so that he knew Arthur could look at his arse without having to glance over his shoulder. “What’s the rush? The campus is practically empty and Guin’s probably still seeing her aunt off at the airport. We’ve almost got the whole place to ourselves.”

“Because the opportunity is there isn’t necessarily justification for taking it.” Merlin’s office came up on the right side, so Arthur took the chance to peek inside and see if the dean had gone home for the holidays yet. It was the twenty-third, after all.

Unsurprisingly, Merlin still was in the office, hunched over a last few pieces of paperwork. According to Vanora, the secretary pool once had worked out a relay schedule to see who stayed the longest before finally taking off for the winter holidays, Merlin or Arthur, and the result had been a draw.

Merlin didn’t move, but his eyes flicked up to skewer Arthur through the glass; Arthur repressed his startled jerk and hastily raised a hand. He mouthed a ‘Happy Holidays,’ and in return Merlin gave him a dignified nod. This year the dean was going to win, but from the look of it, he’d noticed that as much as Arthur had before Vanora had informed him about it.

“Come on, Arthur. Where’s your sense of daring?” Lancelot was saying, still walking obliviously down the hall. He’d pulled on his coat and now was fiddling about with his scarf, checking how its fringes hung in the windows of the offices they were passing. “Where’s your sense of equality?”

“Wondering how on earth that’s supposed to apply to this situation.” Arthur came up behind Lancelot, gave the scarf a deft tug, and kept going. “There. It’s even.”

Lancelot muttered and hurried to catch up with a pout on his face. He still couldn’t help pulling at the scarf, twisting the ends till one was about six inches lower than the other. “It is not. Guin _still_ gloats about the evening you two had in the lecture hall. Maybe uneven scarf ends are fashionable, but I don’t think—”

“Really? Since when have you been a slave to fashion?” The elevator opened mere seconds after Arthur had thumbed the button, which let him step in before Lancelot could see the amusement on his face. 

Not that that did much good, since the other man seemed to have a sixth sense as far as that was concerned. Lancelot stalked after Arthur with stiff shoulders and an abused expression on his face. The elevator could hold a good twelve people without straining, but somehow Lancelot couldn’t find anywhere to stand except directly in front of Arthur.

A hand slipped stealthily into Arthur’s front trouser-pocket, but not so stealthily that he couldn’t grab its wrist before it dug them into too deep a hole. “Lancelot.” Arthur nodded towards the corner of the ceiling. “Security camera.”

“Doesn’t have sound, does it?” As Lancelot smiled angelically, his hand twisted out of Arthur’s grip and got suspiciously tangled in Arthur’s scarf. He shuffled close enough for their noses to graze.

The only reason Arthur didn’t roll his eyes was because he was anxiously watching through the crack of the closing doors to make sure no one was there. “That hardly makes it better.”

Lancelot leaned forward, fingers stroking down Arthur’s scarf. “It depends on how you—what the hell?”

They both jumped as the elevator lurched. It immediately settled down, but before they could regain their balance, it rocked so hard that Arthur knocked into the wall. He took Lancelot with him since they were so…er, closely attached at that moment.

The elevator stilled a second time, but it was several moments before they trusted it enough to push off the railing. Arthur slid out from behind Lancelot and slowly walked around the elevator, listening to the way it creaked with the shifting weight. It was old, and had been suffering problems with increasing frequency to the point that everyone tended to use the stairs as their first choice. The stairs were what Arthur normally preferred whenever possible, but he’d been rather anxious to get Lancelot out of public areas…much to his misfortune, it seemed.

“I think we’re stuck between floors,” Arthur said.

Lancelot had been pushing at the buttons, but now he looked up and his expression said he was in complete agreement with Arthur. He sighed and took out his cellphone, then frowned. “I don’t have reception in here.”

“I do.” Arthur took out his own and flipped through his speed-dial till he got to Merlin’s number. He nodded at the elevator button for the emergency phone call. “Could you try that? Vanora said Bors was coming home late, so some of maintenance should still be in.”

“You have reception in here?” Lancelot said in a disbelieving tone. But he did punch the button as Arthur had asked.

Merlin’s phone had already rung three times, so Arthur hung up. The other man probably had just stepped out; Arthur could call him back and warn him about the situation in a few seconds. “Tristan.”

“Ah.” A voice crackled over the elevator speaker, preventing Lancelot from saying whatever he’d planned to. However, it only took a minute to describe their situation to the person on the other line, so the prevention really only was a delay. As soon as they were done, Lancelot turned around with a questioning look on his face.

Arthur composed his expression into one of mild curiosity. He already suspected where Lancelot’s thoughts might be heading.

“You know, in movies they pop out the ceiling, crawl on top and then pry open the doors,” Lancelot casually said.

“And in movies they either have special tools for that or they’re machines in bodybuilder suits. I’m a thirty-seven-year-old college professor and you were shot in the shoulder barely a month ago.” In real life, it was more or less the same case but with more dirt, Arthur thought as he looked around. He still probably could lever open elevator doors if he had to, but he’d be feeling it in his back and shoulders for a few days. Not to mention it’d be difficult to explain it afterward to the rest of the faculty. The action-oriented approach wasn’t generally considered academia’s forte, and certainly not that of the philosophy department.

Lancelot was suspiciously not disappointed. He’d put his hands back in his pockets and was poking his foot at the floor in a stagy way. His eyes flicked coyly up at Arthur. “So we’re stuck here for at least an hour, I’d guess.”

“And they’ll be monitoring this elevator especially closely, so _no_.” Arthur redialed Merlin’s number. “I’m going to call Guinevere and Tristan to let them know.”

All the demureness dropped from Lancelot like snow from a roughly-shaken tree branch. He rolled his eyes and swung around to lean against the wall, head up to stare irritably at the ceiling. “Whatever happened to your sense of adventure?”

“It’s right behind my desire not to become the gag-movie we show at this year’s faculty New Year’s Eve party. Merlin? Sorry to bother you…no, I’m still in the building. In the elevator, to be precise. Yes, there’s a rather funny story behind that…”

Lancelot snorted softly. “Why don’t you tell me a story?” he muttered.

* * *

_Ten Years Ago_

The house was deathly quiet in a way that set Arthur’s teeth on edge. It wasn’t danger or death that was doing it, because those he’d long since become accustomed to, but something far more insidious. The very air smelled tainted.

“Into the trenches again, yes?” Clayton hefted his duffel onto the sole piece of furniture in the room in which they were standing. The rustling of its polyester was too loud and harsh, making the other man’s shoulder’s jump. “Goddamn it. I hate these kinds of trips.”

“So what’s the story?” Arthur asked, slowly pacing around the room. It would have been the living room or the front parlor, perhaps, if there’d been a family living here. He could picture a crackling fire in the cold, dark fireplace that was the only break in the monotonous white walls.

A family might have been living here, possibly as late as a day ago. There were still small indentations in the carpet where chair legs might have been, and the curtains pulled tight over the windows were of better quality than London usually let their agents write off on expense reports. Careful not to let himself be seen, Arthur parted them just enough to get a look at the background. It was on the small side, but cozy and well-kept.

The clatter of metal on wood made him swing around, hand sliding beneath his arm. Clayton quickly lifted a hand and smiled a wan apology. He flicked his fingers at the silver instruments he’d been laying out on the table. “My hand’s a bit shaky. I suppose I’m tired. Late night yesterday.”

In Arthur’s opinion, it had less to do with late nights and more to do with deeper stresses, but he hardly was one to lecture on those. He came back to the table and silently began to help Clayton arrange the surgical kit.

“What did they tell you?” Clayton quietly asked.

A loud bang startled them both. Arthur automatically clutched tight at the scalpel he was holding so his thumb suddenly throbbed and he had to turn his hand quick to make the blood drip into his palm instead of on the table, while Clayton dropped a pair of forceps. He hastily picked them up and examined their tips for damage.

Arthur wiped off the scalpel with the edge of a cotton wrap. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. I need to boil them all anyway.” Clayton put the forceps back down and walked into the next room, which was the kitchen. His hands were clumsy, but he still moved like someone with training. “That came from the basement.”

“I was on my way back from Prague, but the weather made my plane set down at the airport here. I showed up at the visitor’s center—” euphemism for the local safehouse “—and they said while I was around, I might as well help out with this. That’s all.” Arthur followed the other man just in time to see Clayton filling up a pot with water. “I’m surprised to see you. I thought you were still in Moscow.”

A half-smile flickered over Clayton’s face. He turned off the water with his elbow and swung around to the sink. He hadn’t taken off his gloves and neither had Arthur. “No, Moscow’s double-O territory for the next month. They got out everyone just in case it blew up into a mess.”

“Like it usually does?” After carefully peeling off his glove, Arthur bandaged his thumb with the same scrap of cotton he’d used to wipe off the scalpel. He stuffed the glove into his bag, which was still slung over his shoulder, and dug around till he’d found a new one. Getting it over his wrapped thumb was a tight fit, but he managed it.

The soft laugh Clayton let out was devoid of humor. “The snotty bastard picked up someone for questioning a day ago. I’m here to keep them breathing through that and you’re here because you know Arabic and no one else on this team does.”

As if on cue, stairs creaked nearby as someone came up from below. Arthur tensed up, but didn’t reach for any weapon; the only people that would be around would only walk audibly if they were being polite, and if they meant him injury, they weren’t going to be genteel about it. That peculiarity of the British people had long since fallen over the horizon.

A few minutes later, a sandy-haired young man eased himself into the room. “Are you two ready?” he asked in a curt tone.

“Not quite. I need to make tea.” The innocuous words belied the stiffness of Clayton’s voice as he gestured towards the scalpels and other instruments laid out on the table in the next room. He was generally a mild-mannered man—an odd personality in this field—but on occasion he could put something in his eyes that had stopped braver and older men than this youth in their tracks. It was like desperation, but had a degree of control that said it was more dangerous than commonplace wild fear.

The young man hesitated, then nodded and withdrew.

* * *

_Present-Day_

Lancelot and Arthur had soon moved to sitting on the floor, which was far more comfortable than standing around waiting. Arthur stopped and coughed a few times into his hands, trying to clear up his tight throat. He wished he had a bottle of water with him. “I suppose the snow’s keeping them. I don’t even hear anyone working yet.”

“Well, they did say it was coming down hard,” Lancelot said. He’d crossed his arms over the tops of his knees and hadn’t stopped staring at Arthur since Arthur had started the story. “I have a question. Is there any reason why you’re telling me this now instead of waiting till you can tell both Guin and me? And while we’re in a public elevator?”

“I or Tristan do regular checks on the buildings we frequent. He did this elevator this morning—and I need to remember to ask him later whether he saw anything wrong with the gears, come to think of it. As for the other…I said I’d tell you, but I’ve been putting it off. I’m sorry about that, by the way.” Arthur put his hands on the floor and pushed up, stretching out his back. He’d just let his weight back down when something rattled above them. “I thought I might as well now, since we’ve the time. I’ll tell Guinevere tonight.”

They glanced up, then at the speaker, which was crackling. *Dr. Pendragon? Sorry for the delay, but the mechanics are there now.*

Somebody thumped on the elevator top, making the whole thing move a bit. “Hey, Arthur,” Bors yelled. “It’s kind of a mess up here, but we’ll get you out in time for Christmas, never you fear. Just going to take a while.”

“Thank you, Bors. I do appreciate it, especially since I know I’m keeping you from going home,” Arthur called back.

“Thanks,” Lancelot echoed. His hand curled around Arthur’s arm and he turned to rest his chin on Arthur’s shoulder. “Because you know, you’re going to finish the story right here. Otherwise God knows what the universe will lock us into next.”

He was joking, but the joke didn’t have a long life in the silence that followed. Looking more sober, Lancelot stared down at Arthur’s tie. After a moment, he started flipping it around.

“You don’t actually believe in karma and stuff like cosmic payback, do you? I mean, they’re nice philosophical concepts, but…” Lancelot’s voice trailed off. His fiddling with Arthur’s tie picked up.

Arthur knocked away the other man’s hand and stared at the other side of the elevator. “Life makes you wonder. Often that’s a good thing, but sometimes not.”

* * *

_Ten Years Ago_

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Clayton commented, coming up from behind Arthur.

He didn’t provoke any kind of sudden reaction from Arthur because the smell of blood and ozone had long since preceded him. Even the smoke of the cigarette in Arthur’s hand couldn’t drown it out.

“I don’t,” Arthur tersely answered. And it was true: he didn’t and even now, he’d only been holding it in his hand. It hadn’t touched his lips. During his spell downstairs as a translator, he hadn’t touched anything either, but he still felt as if he had filthy, permanently stained hands.

A match scratched and soon a second stream of smoke issued out towards the window in front of Arthur. Clayton was actually smoking his cigarette, the long cylinder twitching nervously between his fingers so instead of picking up one dark red stripe from his gloves, it was imprinted with several. He noticed Arthur sniffing and offered a melancholy smile. “Russian brand. Strongest damned thing I could find over there. Smells like hell, but then, that’s the point, isn’t it? Like herbs during the plague years.”

“There’s more than one thing in this house that resembles the plague years.” Arthur let his head tip briefly towards the basement stairs, where some men were talking in low but distinctly jocular voices.

“Well, every bank needs a few rabid dogs. If only because everyone else has one and the only thing that can safely touch a rabid dog is another one.” As Clayton spoke, he lighted up another cigarette from the old butt. Once the new tip was glowing, he pinched out the old one and dropped it in a plastic baggie that also contained the used match-head.

The cigarette Arthur was holding had burned nearly down to his fingers. He felt the heat creeping nearer and glanced down to watch the thin, jagged band of red-orange slide closer and closer to his skin. “You don’t actually think that, do you?”

“I think, Arthur, that we’re in the wrong field. We lack the blind conviction that quells the stirrings of an uneasy gut,” Clayton sighed. A lock of hair had fallen over his forehead and he lifted his hand towards it, but at the last second he remembered about the blood. Grimacing, he dropped his hand and curled it into a fist so the coagulating stuff oozed thickly from between his gloved fingers. “But we’re also professionals—can’t leave a job undone, can we? And there’s always the chance that the muck we rake will turn up a land mine _before_ it goes off.”

“Yes. There’s that.” Arthur spoke flatly; it’d been a while since he could trick himself into deep sleep using that line of reasoning.

Clayton glanced worriedly at him, then shrugged. “You don’t think the young man down there knows anything.”

“He’s a boy, not a young man. The closest he’s probably come to the real movers and shakers of his organization is catching a pound or two for emptying out their ash-trays.” The skin of Arthur’s knuckles had just started to blister when he finally ground out the cigarette butt. He stuck the butt in the same bag that had his bloody gloves in them, then tossed it into a black garbage can they’d set up in the corner of the room.

“You think Foster’s fucked up this one and is grabbing at straws, and that that boy down there is suffering for it,” Clayton quietly said.

Better him than Arthur, who was growing increasingly fed up with some of his colleagues. Perhaps the ends justified the means, but for agents like Foster, there were no ends to begin with. They simply liked the violence, and they cared barely enough about self-preservation to find ways to legitimately pursue such a lifestyle.

“Clayton, Arthur.” The man in question came up the stairs with a smile of nasty relief on his face. He peremptorily jerked his head towards the basement. “Bastard’s awake again. Clayton, try and keep him awake long enough to give us a damned answer this time, would you?”

Instead of throwing Foster down the stairs like he dearly wished to, Arthur gritted his teeth and pulled on a fresh pair of gloves. Because Clayton was right: this was the middle of a mission, and there were innocent lives riding on its outcome. Personal likes and dislikes shouldn’t be of any consequence.

The walls and floors of the basement room where they were keeping the boy were now gory with blood and bits of flesh. The place smelled so strongly of urine and burnt tissue that even breathing through his mouth, Arthur felt nauseous.

He took up his position at the far end of the room so Clayton and Foster’s men would have room to…do their duties. The boy was lying on his back, stretched out by manacles that went to exposed pipes in the walls. Two men squatted on his left, preparing a crude electroshock device that had been rigged up out of a portable electric generator and heavy wire. Clayton started to take his place besides them, but was held back by Foster.

“I want this little prick cracked open and squealing,” Foster muttered, taking over the electrodes. “I’ve spent enough time in this goddamned hellhole.”

Awake wasn’t the correct term for the boy. Just conscious enough to be fearful was marginally better; he was too weak to move anything but his eyeballs, which rolled around and around. Their red-laced whites were the brightest things in the room.

“I’m sure he’d agree with you,” Clayton said, nodding towards the boy. He spoke mildly, but mad for blood as Foster was, the man wasn’t entirely a fool.

“Losing your stomach, are you?” Foster hawked and spat disgustedly at the corner so his spittle rang off a pipe. He lightly touched the electrodes together, jerking them apart as soon as they’d sparked. Apparently the discharge wasn’t strong enough for him, so he twisted about to fiddle with the dials on the generator.

Clayton had his head down so his expression wasn’t visible. He gingerly prodded about the boy’s mashed wrists till he found the pulse. “Much longer and you’ll be lucky if you don’t lose him. Which idiot smashed him in the mouth? I thought you wanted him _talking_ \--”

“You watch where you’re going with that, doctor,” Foster snapped. On the heels of his words came a scream; he’d brought the electrodes down somewhere in the vicinity of the boy’s groin.

The boy arched and writhed as the sizzling of flesh filled the air; Clayton cursed as his grip slipped off and lunged to pin the boy down so he wouldn’t knock himself out against the floor. A stream of broken words flowed from the boy’s mouth, providing some distraction for Arthur. But piecing together their slurred and mangled syllables in his head didn’t completely wipe out the image before.

“That’s more like it. Yell all you want, you little piece of shite. You’re not going anywhere till you tell me what I want.” Foster rocked back on his heels and casually scraped burnt flakes of skin and muscle off the electrodes onto the floor. He tipped his head at Arthur. “So?”

“Nothing useful,” Arthur said after a moment’s hesitation. He’d had an irrational impulse to lie to the contrary and it’d been shockingly strong.

Snorting, Foster moved around so he could reach further between the boy’s legs. He absently wiped his bloody hand over his forehead, which was already crusted with older smears. “This isn’t exactly polite company, Arthur. If he told me to go fuck my dear old marm, you can go ahead and say so.”

“He said he hoped you’ll burn in a thousand hells while demons raped your children before your eyes,” Arthur slowly replied.

Foster had just applied the electrodes to a fresh area, so he didn’t seem to have noticed Arthur’s tone, but Clayton did. He looked steadily at Arthur, then sighed and got up higher on his knees so he had better leverage for holding down the boy’s shoulders. “Arthur? Can you go get an adrenaline shot out of my bag? I believe we’re going to need it soon.”

Cowardly as it was, Arthur was glad to have an excuse to look away. Clayton’s bag was near the bottom of the staircase, so Arthur swung around and out of the room. It wasn’t so far that he had to strain to hear any of the boy’s pained groans.

He found a syringe and the right bottle, but Arthur kept on digging in the bar. He refused to think very closely about why, but he rummaged around till he found a bottle of poison, and that was what he loaded into the syringe. Then he slowly walked back to the room. He had the strangest craving for a cigarette, even though he’d never had one in his life.

* * *

_Present-Day_

Lancelot had gone very quiet and still besides Arthur, even giving up on trying to tease off Arthur’s tie. Above them, banging noises and the occasional florid curse by Bors provided some slight grounding. It was all very mundane and…harmless.

“Arthur? I’m thinking you two can just stay in there, if you don’t mind. Looks like we can get it started up again and that way you won’t mess up your suits.” Bors laughed, a deep rich happy sound. “But if you’re in a hurry…”

“No. No, I don’t mind waiting a few more minutes,” Arthur replied.

Before he could ask Lancelot if the other man did, Lancelot stretched up to look at the ceiling. “Take your time,” he called. “This is the longest I’ve seen Arthur in a week.”

Another bellow of laughter came rumbling down, echoed by the other man Bors had helping him. “Finals time, when the professors sleep less than the students! Well, maybe ten more minutes and we’ll have you out of there so Arthur can finally go home.”

Lancelot had sounded quite cheerful, but his face had been anything but. He settled back on the ground and looked expectantly at Arthur. His arm was still draped over Arthur’s knee, which Arthur took as a good sign. But then, they hadn’t yet gotten to the worst of it yet.

* * *

_Ten Years Ago_

Thoroughly disgusted, Foster flopped into the lone folding chair in the room and flapped his hand at the limp body on the floor. “What the hell are you here for, Clayton? You’re supposed to keep him breathing.”

“He is breathing,” Clayton muttered, a touch of acid in his voice. His hands were cradling the boy’s head, turning it side-to-side as he studied the boy’s eyes. “Barely. Arthur, did you find a spare syringe?”

Arthur had come forward to squat down on the other side of the boy’s head in order to hear what the boy was saying. By now the boy’s voice had been reduced to little more than a raspy whisper and it was difficult to make out one word in three. It was difficult for Arthur to breathe, but he repeatedly told himself that that was nothing in comparison.

He juggled the filled syringe, silent till Clayton repeated his question. Foster had started to lean forward, a quizzical look on his face, so Arthur quickly handed over the syringe. “There.”

Clayton glanced down at it once and started to lift the boy’s arm. Then he paused, head slightly tipped to the side, and glanced at the syringe a second time. His eyes flicked up to Arthur, who was still trying to argue it out in his mind. Arthur looked away, then back just in time to see Clayton’s hand and the syringe drop.

_What if the boy did know?_

“I—” Arthur started, belatedly reaching for Clayton. But the other man had already lifted the syringe, apparently done.

“That should make you better,” Clayton said, gazing down at the boy.

Sour gorge rose in Arthur’s throat and stuck there no matter how many times he swallowed. He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them to feel a slight stinging at their corners. //That was poison,// he translated.

At first he wasn’t sure whether the boy understood, but then a wreck of a smile cracked the boy’s shattered face. His shoulders started to shake and he made a gurgling noise that after a moment, Arthur realized was supposed to be laughter.

//About time you gave up…don’t know shit…// The boy added a meaningless spate of French before his head lolled to the side.

Arthur frowned, then jerked up and around; Foster came to attention and started to ask what the boy had said, but Arthur cut him off. “Marseilles. That last thing he said—”

“It was French, but nonsense—”

“It’s slang,” Arthur snapped, glaring till Foster sat back down. “Dockyard gangs. I’ve heard them using it down there…so there’s a connection. This boy’s not old enough to be anything but a runner, but if they’re working together…”

Foster was already on his feet and half-out the door, roaring for his men. Arthur exhaled sharply and turned back to the boy…and to Clayton, who was quietly injecting something into the boy’s arm. For a moment, Arthur was speechless.

In that moment, Clayton glanced up and made a helpless shrug. “I dug my thumbnail into his arm. He’s so far gone he didn’t know the difference.”

“But you knew. You knew I would—” Arthur broke off and turned his head this way and that, trying to loosen the suddenly tight muscles in his neck. His breath hissed through his teeth. “You tricked the boy, when you and I both know he didn’t know anything.”

“You’re a good man, Arthur. And you’re one that stands his ground. But unfortunately, not all of us can do that. I might have known, but I couldn’t have lived with the uncertainty. That little sliver of doubt that he might’ve known something…” Clayton muttered. He roughly jerked the needle free of the boy’s arm, then set the syringe to the side so he could hold the boy’s head with both arms. After a moment, he rocked forward so his and the boy’s noses were almost touching. “He’s dead. At least he provided us with a clue.”

Arthur swallowed so hard that he almost thought his tongue had reversed direction. He got to his feet, struggling to hold in his vomit. “That is the only reason I’m not touching you, Clayton.”

“Oh, leave the sanctimony out of this room. You almost tried to stop me. You had a little doubt, too,” Clayton snapped.

His words made Arthur stop where he was. Then Arthur put a hand against the door-frame and hunched over, eyes closed and breathing shallow till he knew he wouldn’t throw up if he went any further.

“We’re in the wrong field,” Clayton said after a long moment. He sounded tired. “Care to join me for a smoke? It doesn’t help you sleep, but at least it gets the smell out of your nose.”

Arthur slowly pushed himself off the door-frame. He looked over his shoulder, back into that room, and thought that nothing could be brought in there except the very worst. It was as true for him as it was for Clayton, and so trying to pretend there was a moral high ground was pointless. “No. No, thank you. I’ll…see you back in London.”

Clayton simply exhaled, long and low and exhausted. When Arthur left him, he was working on bagging the body.

* * *

_Present-Day_

“I ended up staying an extra day to help follow up the lead. We stopped it barely in time, and I still think the whole situation was badly handled. By all involved parties.” Arthur switched his gaze from the far wall to his knee, at which his fingers had been picking with increasing force for the last few minutes. His expression…

As it turned out, it was probably a good thing they were stuck in an enclosed space. If they’d been outside, Lancelot wasn’t entirely sure that Arthur wouldn’t suddenly have had an urge to toss himself into traffic.

“I always meant to apologize to Clayton for some of what came out, but that actually was the last time we ever saw each other till recently,” Arthur said. He stopped picking at the nonexistent lint on his knee and simply dug in with his nails.

Lancelot reached over and tugged till he finally pried Arthur’s hand away from there. Then he shoved Arthur’s knees forward so he could swing up and over, firmly seating himself in Arthur’s lap. He kissed the other man before Arthur’s open mouth could say anything stupid, and while Arthur was still in shock from that, Lancelot got in first. “Arthur. You _are_ a good man. You can be that and still have done terrible things in the past. People aren’t static—that didn’t come out right. They are—you are, because I can’t imagine you being much different back then—but you’re not only the sum of your bad deeds. You’re…damn it, this is _not_ coming out like it’s supposed to.”

Arthur was still blinking rapidly but it looked like he was recovering. A couple mental slaps to Lancelot’s brain organized his thoughts a little better, but not fast enough; he just had the feeling that if he didn’t say something now and say it forcefully enough, Arthur was going to slip away.

“I wouldn’t sleep with the kind of man you obviously think you are. Were. Whichever. I wouldn’t _touch_ him. But I’m—” Well, they always said actions proved louder than words. So Lancelot put his hands on either side of Arthur’s face and leaned in till their lips slowly slid together. 

At first Arthur was motionless, but he gradually warmed up to it, mouth parting so Lancelot could nip lightly at Arthur’s upper lip. His hands wandered up Lancelot’s back and caressed Lancelot’s shoulders before going slightly stiff; the damned man had remembered about the gunshot wound from Thanksgiving. Lancelot wriggled himself down farther in a pointed attempt to distract Arthur. Which was working, but then so was the elevator. It settled down just as Arthur’s tongue was getting into it, doors chiming open.

“Finally! I’ve been waiting for—oh, for God’s sake, Lancelot.” Guin stood on the lobby-side of the doors, arms akimbo and foot tapping. Behind her was Tristan, who had just turned to stare nonchalantly at a painting on the wall, and Merlin, who was struggling to stuff his obvious amusement beneath his usual gruff Dean-of-the-College face.

Arthur flushed to his ears. Lancelot bit back a disappointed sigh and reluctantly climbed off the other man. At least it seemed like Arthur had been coming around before they’d been interrupted. They were over the hump, so Lancelot just had to remember to keep dragging Arthur away from the cliff-side.

Serious thoughts for Christmas. It must have showed because when they were walking out, Guin pulled him aside. “What happened in there? And don’t say nothing, or that it might’ve been something if the doors hadn’t opened. That’s not what I’m seeing in Arthur.”

“No, you’re seeing his polite nothing-is-wrong face,” Lancelot muttered. Ahead of them, Arthur was discussing some last-minute change of plan for next semester with Merlin as if the whole talk in the elevator hadn’t happened. Except Arthur was a little too considerate, too careful about being inoffensive. “Every time I think I’ve got all his little guilt-triggers sorted out, he goes and comes up with a new one. And they’re always worse than the last one.”

Guin badly wanted to ask for specifics, but they were in too public a place. She arched an eyebrow instead, which meant she was going to lock them in the bathroom later till she had every minute scrap of information committed to memory. Though in this case, that might be a good thing—Lancelot liked working alone, but he had to admit that Arthur wasn’t a one-person job. A bloody _college_ might not even be enough.

“You know, I’m incredibly patient with him. I really am. I’d never put up with this from anyone else.” And Lancelot wasn’t just being arrogant, no matter what Guin obviously thought. Bloody Arthur and his bloody issues stuffed all over the place like booby-traps and his bloody…whatever that wouldn’t let go of Lancelot.

“You’re stubborn,” Guin said. She adjusted her scarf and quickened her pace a bit; the snow wasn’t coming down nearly as hard as it had been, but it was wet and heavy and her curls were already sagging beneath clumps of flakes. “Though that might actually be an advantage here.”

Lancelot snorted. “Why, thank you, Guin. But as long as we’re talking strategy, could we turn our attention to Arthur and a warm bath at home?” He glanced at her, then sped up himself. “Trust me. He needs it.”

“And your interest is purely altruistic?” She was starting to trot. The snow and her high heels, however, were hampering her movements quite a bit so it was easy for Lancelot to get past her. Guin let out an irritated noise and chased after him till they were flat-out racing down the sidewalk.

Arthur turned around, a puzzled look on his face. Tristan and Merlin were smarter and stepped off to the side; Tristan even managed to move to the one spot where he wouldn’t be sprayed by all the snow that ended up in the air when Arthur, Guin and Lancelot inevitably collided.

Well, it was the holidays. Time enough for darkness later.


	3. Sixth-Grade Crush

wear black tie to the fucking theater anymore,” Galahad snapped. He ducked the stupid bow-tie Gawain was waving around and dodged into the bathroom. One quick kick and the door shut in Gawain’s snickering face.

Where the hell had he gotten a bowtie, anyway? It wasn’t like either of them kept around tuxedos, and a bowtie without a tuxedo, a limo and an entourage looked pretty stupid. Come to think of it, mentioning to Gawain that he was taking Mariette out later so sorry, Gawain would have to make dinner for himself tonight was dumb, too. Why had Galahad done that?

Oh, wait—Galahad hadn’t. He just hadn’t been quick enough to spit out a convincing denial when Mariette had walked into the GSI common room, informed him in front of Gawain that Kitty was letting her off early so they could actually catch dinner first, and then airily gone out again. That had been just before lunch. It was now four in the afternoon, and if rent-day wasn’t tomorrow and Galahad didn’t need Gawain’s bank account, he would’ve broken Gawain’s goddamn neck.

“Hey, remember to shave!” Gawain’s voice was muffled by the door, but it was still easy to tell that he was giggling. Giggling like a little girl.

Galahad briefly thought about stealing their bottle of aspirin. Then he shook himself and bent over the sink to wash his face. “Don’t you have better things to do?”

“No, I’m serious! You’ve got way too much stubble—it’s dark in a movie theater. She hits you an inch off and she’s going to get half her skin ripped off.” Well, Gawain did sound a little more sober. ‘Little’ being the keyword.

After a look in the mirror, Galahad reluctantly had to admit that Gawain might be right. He poked around till he found a can of shaving cream. Then he poked around some more till he found one that wasn’t almost empty; he had no idea why, but Gawain could be completely anal about milk expiration dates and also constantly forget to toss out shaving-can empties. Galahad junked the two he’d found and started smearing the white stuff onto his face.

“…Galahad?”

“I’m shaving, all right? And I’m seeing a movie with Mariette! Stop being such a girl about it and go do something else! Can’t you bug Tristan or something?” Galahad yelled back. Honestly. Gawain wasn’t even the one that’d gotten shoehorned into going on the stupid…thing.

Galahad sighed and put down his razor. He stared at the face in the mirror. Then he grimaced and started shaving again. Maybe he was going to look like a kid without stubble, but he just looked plain silly with shaving cream smeared over half his face.

“…mumble mumble…”

Which wasn’t what Gawain had actually said, unless he was really losing it, but his voice had suddenly dropped in volume and coherency. He also sounded a little depressed, though that might’ve just been the fact that the cheap plywood the doors were made of did funny things to sound.

Nearly all the cream had been scraped off, and Galahad had been beginning to think he’d get through it okay when suddenly there was a stinging pain on the side of his jaw. He hissed and pressed his knuckle to the cut before it could drip all over. Then he dropped the razor in the sink and fumbled around till he had a wad of toilet paper against the nick. Every fucking time, damn it. “What?”

“I said, he’s checking out another job.” Now Gawain sounded touchy.

Hard-earned experience had taught Galahad that it was too much to hope for that Gawain would go off to brood by himself. He’d just settle down in front of the door, and when Galahad tried to open it, somebody would get a doorknob in the stomach and it’d all end in no-holds-barred wrestling on the floor. It made for a hell of a painful rug-burn. And okay, Galahad usually ended up with an even more depressed Gawain on his hands, which made him all uncomfortable and sometimes kind of…mushy.

He finished rinsing the cream and blood off his face, then poked at the cut. It was pretty far down on his jaw, so it wasn’t too visible. “Is it in the city?”

“Yeah. Brooklyn, though.” Gawain shuffled around outside. He was probably pulling his knees up to his chest. “It’s a really good job—great salary for entry-level, and the hours aren’t too bad.”

“In other words, he’s going to show up as randomly as he does now?” Though at least Gawain had trained Tristan to goddamned knock, Galahad sourly thought. Usually the wood was still the windowsill more often than it was the door, but hey, Galahad wasn’t falling screaming off the couch as often.

Random thumpings with slight rattling trail-off. This apartment was way nicer than the one they’d had when they’d first come to New York, but it was still easy to tell where the landlord had cut corners. “I think they’re going to want him to move.”

“Not all that great, then. Where’s he going to put that hawk of his? You really think he’s going to move so far that he can’t pop over to the aviary every time he gets twitchy?” Galahad called back. He poked around in the medicine cabinet, wondering if this crap required cologne. It’d been a while since he’d had to go somewhere with a girl who’d be in a position to notice that kind of thing after the first five or so minutes.

Something creaked beside him and Galahad suddenly realized he’d forgotten to lock the door. He reached for the knob, but Gawain had already shoved his head in between the door and the wall. “You know, sometimes I remember why I put up with you.”

“Because of my amazing common sense?” Galahad stepped back just in time to avoid Gawain’s punch at his ankle. Cologne probably was a bad idea. For one thing, he couldn’t remember how old the stuff in their cabinet was; it wasn’t like either of them ever really used it. He picked up the bottle of hair-gel instead. “Man, you’ve been freaking out over him way too much lately. It’s _Tristan_. He’s not gonna run off on you. He’s like…he’s like that ugly-ass garden gnome you’re always throwing away, but somehow it _comes back_.”

Gawain opened his mouth. He closed it. He looked like the spot floating somewhere over Galahad’s left knee was making scrunchy faces at him. “Garden gnomes. Galahad, the first time you ever were out of the inner-city zone was when we drove up here.”

“It’s a metaphor. Or weren’t you paying attention to the semester’s first lesson module? Tsk.” The mirror still said Galahad’s hair was frizzing all over the place. He gave it a couple more squeezes with his hands, trying to push it so at least he wasn’t getting the strands in his eyes, but he didn’t try to make his curls look all nice and neat. There wasn’t enough gel in the world to make that happen.

“Yeah. About that. I’ve got this interview in mid-February.” The expression on Gawain’s face was about as casual as a cat trying to saunter past a cranky street dog. “With the, uh, School of Education.”

“Ow!” Galahad winced, then carefully untangled his fingers from his hair. They came away with a good four or five strands. He rinsed those off in the sink, then sat down on the toilet and started wiping his hands dry with another wad of toilet paper.

Gawain stared blankly at the ceiling. He was still lying on his back on the floor, and it didn’t look like he was planning to get up any time soon. Weird for him.

“So…why do you have an interview with them? Because I _know_ it can’t be to enroll. We’re grad students! We hate being GSIs, but we do it because the college won’t pay for us to be here otherwise! It’s a law!” Okay, maybe Galahad was sounding a little hysterical. But honestly, teaching?

He looked at Gawain, and Gawain never had been great at hiding his emotions. So yeah, honestly. Teaching.

Galahad sat back hard so he rattled the top of the toilet. He absently reached around and steadied it with his hand. “When did this happen?”

“Just…well, I just made the appointment yesterday. That’s why the meeting’s not till February—they’re really booked up, and I can’t even enroll till next semester,” Gawain said.

Yeah. Like that had been what Galahad had meant.

After a moment, Gawain rolled over and pushed himself onto his elbows, then back so he was sitting in the doorway. He was starting to get defensive. “What?”

“Well, it’s just kind of…surprising. I mean, not that you can’t pick your way to die early of stress-caused heart attacks, but…yeah. Teaching?” Galahad was still trying to wrap his brain around it. For one thing, he couldn’t picture Gawain with short hair, and he wasn’t all that sure that they let teachers wear ponytails that went down nearly to the waist. “Like, real teaching, or did the Teach-For-America people get to you?”

“If they had, then I don’t see why you’d worry. _We_ were the disadvantaged inner-city kids a couple years ago. Can’t be any harder than trying to make you learn that not washing your laundry makes the house stink,” Gawain snorted. He pulled up his knees and started fiddling with his toes, face going sober again. “The undergrads aren’t that bad, and I like what we do—I like mapping out and writing the papers. I know you hate it and you’re counting the seconds till some think-tank snaps you up, but hey, that’s you.”

Galahad wrinkled his nose. “Never said it was you. So what, you’d be like Arthur?”

“If I’m really, really lucky.” Gawain laughed a little. “He’s not even forty and he’s got a full professorship, tenure and his own endowment? I’ll settle for a nice associate professorship somewhere that gives me enough spare time to publish a paper every couple of years.”

Which actually was a hell of a lot more than they’d ever thought they were going to get. And if Galahad thought about it, that would fit Gawain pretty well. As long as Galahad left the hair alone.

“I don’t know. The idea’s been floating around for a while, but I just sat down and thought seriously about it a couple days ago, and I think I like it.” Shrugging, Gawain stood up. He frowned and batted at Galahad’s hair. “It’s still just a maybe. I haven’t even mentioned it to Tristan yet. Or Arthur.”

“If the interview’s not till February, you probably could sneak it in with Valentine’s Day. Say it and then hand Tristan a bag of dead rats or something,” Galahad said. Then he flinched and smacked away Gawain’s hand. “Ow! What the hell? You just messed up whatever you were fixing.”

The other man rolled his eyes and walked out of the bathroom. “Don’t think I don’t know that you’re trying to get sent to a conference on February fourteenth. Jesus, Galahad. I thought Grandma Yvie smacked better manners into you than that.”

“What? What the hell else am I supposed to do? It’s not like she’s even calling me her boyfriend yet, and you know, I still haven’t even seen her breasts. Felt them, yeah, but—” Galahad started to go after Gawain, but the reflection in the mirror caught his attention. He paused, checked himself over, and then said to hell with it. “You know what we’re going on today?”

Gawain turned around and dramatically swept out his hands. “A…date?”

“ _No_. We’re checking out the new medieval epic because Kitty’s play this semester is set during the same period. It’s a ‘learning experience’,” Galahad snapped. It definitely wasn’t a date. Dates didn’t insist that he learn something when he took them out. “We’re researching.”

“So why can’t you do it in a library? If that’s what you’re doing, it’s not like you have to go on a…date.” And Gawain was back to enjoying Galahad’s discomfort, the son of a bitch.

Well, it was time to go meet Mariette anyway, so Galahad grabbed his coat and made sure he had his wallet. His stupid roommate could go laugh himself silly in the damn bathroom if he wanted, but Galahad didn’t have to stay around for it. “It’s not a goddamned date.”

“No, it’s den~ial—”

Galahad slammed the door on Gawain’s idiotic sing-songing and stomped down the stairs. First thing he was going to do when he saw Mariette was mention that hey, if they weren’t officially dating? Then maybe she shouldn’t talk about their non-dates where people could hear about them and get the wrong damned idea.

* * *

Dinner was good. Decent food, enough people in the place that their chatter covered for any uncomfortable silences, and Mariette’s feminist streak having her offer to split the check before she even saw what it came to. And somehow, she still hadn’t managed to get off the topic of Galahad’s complaint. “I was only telling you that we could eat dinner.”

He’d brought it up once at the very beginning, and he hadn’t even been that mean about it. If she could just listen, take the advice and let it go…but no, they had to debate it. “Yeah, that might’ve been what you said, but what it—what it _connoted_ to Gawain was that we were officially dating. I was just _suggesting_ that maybe next time you should be more careful about your _context_.”

Score one for the fancy-shmancy vocabulary of higher education. Mariette actually stopped arguing and scrunched up her face, which meant she was seriously considering what he’d said. Galahad took advantage of the gap to buy their tickets.

It was pretty late, but it was also Friday night and not that far into the semester, so he was a little surprised at how empty the theater seemed to be. The ticket-seller and the concessions stand guy were the only other people he could see, and the parking lot hadn’t been very full either. “You want anything?” he asked.

“What?” She blinked and stared around till she hit on the three-foot replica of a soft drink that topped the concession stand, whereupon she figured it out. “Oh. Not really. I’m still very full from dinner. You?”

“No, I’m good.” Okay, so where were they going? The individual theaters were clearly at the back, but Galahad had forgotten to ask which one was showing what movie. There were digital signs, but they hadn’t been too reliable for the past week. For some reason, they were prone to randomly switching around…or maybe it was just because he only had time to catch a movie late at night, and that was when the staff started getting bored.

He glanced over his shoulder at the concession stand, but the guy that’d been there had disappeared. A check at the ticket desk said that the ticket-seller was too busy chatting up the groovy monkeys on the wall.

“That was not a cigarette, was it?” Mariette snorted, lip curled in distaste. “They both smelled of marijuana.”

“Yeah, well, college.” Actually, Galahad had figured the concession-stand guy for more of a coke user, given his eyes. But anyway, they weren’t going to be much help. “You had your bout with it too, remember?”

She did, but didn’t like being reminded of it. First she ducked her head and blushed, and then she started loudly and quickly talking about how she hadn’t known and anyway, he’d been the one to take her to that kind of party. Galahad ignored her and just dragged them towards the back; hopefully they could hear which theater it was. The two other movies playing this late were some modern art-house flick about fucked-up people and a one-night showing of _Chinatown_ , so it shouldn’t be too hard.

“Huh…” He paused, picked the door that had the most sword-swinging-like sounds coming out of it, then directed them that way. “Oh, lay off. What are you, a five-year-old? It wasn’t like I held a gun to your head.”

“No, but…” Mariette tugged her wrist from his hand and crossed her arms over her chest. Her hair was coming out of her bun, and it made her look a lot less uptight. “You could’ve mentioned not to eat anything.”

It was on the tip of Galahad’s tongue to say that should’ve been obvious, but he restrained himself. One, he was getting really tired of arguing with her, and two…well, she could be kind of clueless when it came to having fun. Sometimes he wondered whether her parents had raised her in a nunnery or something; he would’ve thought she’d pick up a couple tips from TV. And he heard that the commercials in Europe were way longer and less censored than in the U. S., too.

“…weren’t very good.”

“What?” Galahad peeked inside the door, but the trailers were already over and between the darkness and the angle of the screen, he couldn’t see what was playing. He couldn’t tell from the dialogue either, since no one was talking. But the music was orchestral and wailing, so he figured he had the right one.

Mariette’s hand somehow got onto his elbow. She always followed people too closely and she was stepping on his heels. “The Jell-O shots weren’t very good either. I should have let you drink them.”

“Yeah. Man, Halloween and I didn’t even get buzzed, let alone drunk,” Galahad muttered. He still was a little annoyed about that, even though what she’d just said had basically amounted to an apology. A diffident, unspoken one, but hell, that was a huge first step for her.

“But then you would’ve woken up with a hang-over and would’ve been all grumpy.” Something tripped Mariette and they both nearly fell over the first row of seats. She caught herself pretty quickly, but then got tangled up with Galahad’s feet and had to grab onto a seat. “No, no, go _that_ way.”

Right. As if he could see where she was gesturing. Galahad felt around till he got hold of a chair arm, then pulled himself up. He accidentally kicked her and winced; Mariette squeaked loudly and skittered back. “I was grumpy anyway. Gawain and Tristan made up and then Gawain came back and was all… goofy.”

“I don’t remember that that was how it—oh! I’m so sorry, we didn’t see you—oh.”

Mariette’s first “oh” had been startled, but not all that unusual. Her second one had that weird undertone people got when they were seeing something far, far out of their everyday experience. Like the way Galahad always wanted to sound when he walked in on Gawain and Tristan, for example. He had a feeling it’d be better not to turn around, but his curiosity made him anyway.

At first he wasn’t sure what he was looking at, but then the movie switched to a scene with more lighting and things cleared up a little. Not much, but Galahad saw enough to get that that wasn’t his fault so much as the…two people?...who were all jammed together…oh. And one of them was hastily pulling down her skirt and muttering in a cheerfully irritated voice, which Galahad couldn’t help but recognize.

“Hi, Professor Cobham,” he said. His tongue felt kind of numb, but the words still came out fine. Galahad struggled for something else to add and finally had to turn to the screen for inspiration. “Huh. This doesn’t look like the Dark Ages of Britain.”

“No, though it’s certainly too _dark_ for this survivor of the British university system,” Cobham tartly replied. She messed around with her skirt, which was voluminous and crinkly and was a great shield for whomever was with her. “Oh, damn. I’ve lost a shoe.”

Mariette was making croaking sounds, though they weren’t quite loud enough yet for anyone but Galahad to notice. He glanced at her, then started to back out of the aisle. At least, that was what he’d meant to do, but Mariette apparently took it for some kind of offer because she dove at his shoulder and clung to it, shoving her face in his neck. Galahad had to sling an arm around her just to keep his balance.

“We were…uh…looking for the other movie. Sorry about that.” Oh, shit. The thought suddenly popped into Galahad’s head that that patch of white beneath Cobham’s shoulder was too smooth to be part of her clothing. Jesus Christ, and Galahad had thought he’d avoided ever getting into this kind of embarrassing scenario thanks to having no parents. “We’ll just…leave you to it. Really very sorry, Prof—”

“ _Don’t_ call me that, please. How many times do I have to tell you, Galahad—it’s Kitty.” Cobham sighed dramatically and tugged at her clothing, which hopefully got everything all covered and so forth again. “And I was just beginning to feel young again. Ah, well. The movie was terrible anyway—so many contrivances! No proper characterization at all.”

The good news was that she was all clothed again. The bad news was that her skirt wasn’t covering up her date, and maybe it was dark, but Galahad could still tell that the guy was on the young side. Like, twenty years. Mariette must have been peeking because she muffled a little giggle-slash-gasp into Galahad’s neck. He scooted them into the aisle and hoped she wasn’t going to start drooling.

“Well, that’s easily remedied—the youth bit, of course. I’m afraid I can’t do much for the movie,” said the guy in an amused baritone. He made a cheesy little gesture with his hands and magically produced a woman’s shoe. “You’ll be wanting this, I suppose?”

“And probably a larger space as well. I’m all for reliving the spontaneity of youth, but not at the expense of my back.” After putting on the shoe, Cobham gracefully made her way out of the row, then moved aside for her date. She kept messing with her hair and pulling at the collar of her shirt, which seemed kind of pointless to Galahad. It was a wreck anyway and she was only going to muss it up more in a couple minutes.

Galahad mentally smacked himself and squeezed his brain hard. Ew. He so wasn’t thinking that Cobham was actually looking pretty good for her age. That was just…inappropriate in so many ways, and not just because she was his advisor and everyone already had their hands full walking delicately around the Gawain-dating-Tristan-Arthur’s-semi-son thing.

Actually, what Galahad should be doing was taking a quick exit. He tried to, but Mariette wasn’t exactly with the program yet and instead they nearly ended up on their asses on the floor again. “Goddamn it, I can’t see anything,” he muttered, steadying them.

“A common problem with movie theaters,” quipped Cobham’s date. He looked really pleased with himself.

Cobham barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. She must’ve gone with elbowing instead, because the guy suddenly jerked forward so _he_ almost went down, and when he straightened up, his expression was on the pained side. Kitty pointed at him and he made a half-hearted attempt to look nice, which she clearly didn’t believe at all. “Galahad, Mariette, this is Sam. Sam, these are two of my graduate students on the Economics side.”

She followed it up with a slightly-strained smile, though Galahad didn’t think the strain was so much him and Mariette as Sam whatever, who was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. He was going to say something as well, but before he could, he suffered another attack of unseen-elbowing. “Pleased to meet you,” Sam managed. “Ah…my hands are a bit full, so you’ll have to forgive me for not offering one.”

Yeah, sure, and Galahad wasn’t memorizing the exact position of these seats so he’d never sit in them again. Sam whatever had better open all the doors with his hips and not touch the handles. “It’s okay. Anyway, we really have to…well, go. Catch our movie. See you Monday, Co—Kitty.”

“Salut.” Mariette was still croaking, but at least she remembered to wave at the other two. Then she turned around and hauled them out of there like her ass was on fire.

“Whoa! Slow down—they’re not following!” As soon as they were back in the hall, Galahad dragged on her till they weren’t in serious danger of running into a wall.

She let him do that, but then went too far in the other direction and started walking around in a little circle, wringing her hands. “I cannot believe—I—we—they—mon Dieu. C’est tout—I mean, that is all. My God. That is…that was…”

“Mariette? Galahad?”

Holy Mary, Mother of God. Somebody really had it in for Galahad.

He slowly turned around with a twitchy smile on his face that really hurt his facial muscles. “Uh, Arthur. Hi. You aren’t seeing uh, _Chinatown_ , are you? Or _Tristan and Isolde_?”

Arthur quickly picked up on the weird vibe and slowed down to carefully consider the matter, plus Galahad and Mariette, who’d frozen like someone had tasered her. “No. Actually, we were just leaving from the seven-thirty—”

We? Maybe Tristan wanted to mock the legend he’d been named after? In a best-case scenario…which the approaching man proved it wasn’t going to be.

“All right, let’s go. Guin should be home by now and even if she throws pens at me, at least she puts enough butter on popcorn. Honestly, it was ridiculous. Barely enough to feel on my fingers, let alone taste,” Lancelot said, nonchalantly coming up. He’d seen Galahad and Mariette from a long way off, but he obviously didn’t care. The corners of his mouth were spasming a little, like he was trying really hard not to laugh.

Mariette sort of made a jerk at Galahad’s shoulder, but held off from grabbing it at the last minute. She distractedly said goodbye to Arthur, who seemed to be debating whether to drop his head in his hands or to smack Lancelot upside the head. At any rate, he was an impressive shade of blush.

“’lo, Galahad. Sorry to cut the greetings short, but we really should be heading to bed. Have to make sure your advisor gets enough rest and that sort of thing.” Lancelot grabbed Arthur’s arm without stopping and casually walked them towards the door.

They weren’t even out of the hallway before Galahad heard Arthur start talking in a scolding tone, but Galahad didn’t stick around to hear the details. He trailed Mariette into the one theater that hadn’t been ruled out yet and saw that the movie had actually just started to play; they’d crammed a hell of a lot of trailers and ads in before this one.

Nobody else was in this theater—Galahad spent a good two minutes making sure of that. He finished up and turned towards the front to see that Mariette was still standing in the middle of the aisle, eyeballing the seats. “We’ve got our pick,” he said.

“I know, but…anyone could have…and yes, I know that this is true on any day, but it’s more difficult to ignore that right now.” She spread out her hands at the end of it, presumably to express how weird, frustrating, yet completely understandable that opinion was.

“Yeah…man. As if I wasn’t traumatized enough by Gawain’s boyfriends.” Galahad looked at the floor. It wasn’t exactly clean either, but at least it’d be easier to pretend that the last few minutes hadn’t happened. Anyway, plain old dirt had always been a hell of a lot easier to ignore than sex.

He plopped himself down, then experimentally laid back. After taking off his coat and wadding it beneath his head, he found that the picture was a little blurry and the perspective was off, but it was workable.

Mariette stood up for a little bit longer, but when she realized Galahad wasn’t leaving, she reluctantly sat down. Hell, they’d bought the damn tickets, so they’d better get a movie out of it.

By the time the first fight scene had come and gone, she was resting her head on his arm, curled tight to his side. She wasn’t wearing jeans, but she had ditched the skirts for pants so he could feel the warmth of her knee pressing against his. Galahad hadn’t put on any cologne, but she was wearing some light perfume that did a really good job of covering up the theater’s funky smell.

“I never…” She paused to let the actors get through some dialogue before continuing. “I knew Kitty was dating, but it is odd to actually see her doing it.”

“You know what I wonder? Where she got the guy. Did he look like a student to you?” Galahad mumbled.

He wasn’t expecting the little punch Mariette gave him, and so he missed a couple exchanges on the screen. He missed some more because she was hissing at him. “She wouldn’t!”

“I never said he’d be one of hers! Maybe she just snagged him off the commons!” he snapped. His arm was really stinging, but if he wanted to rub it, he’d have to push at Mariette and she’d probably take it the wrong way.

Galahad just didn’t say anything else, figuring she’d get distracted by the movie. At first he thought it was working, but then Mariette pushed herself up on one arm and stared down at him. He had no idea why because he couldn’t make out a single detail of her face.

“Can you believe they were having sex in public?” she said. Oddly enough, she sounded less scandalized than confused.

“Uh, yeah. I mean, it’s kind of rare for somebody her age to be doing it, but sex in a movie theater’s popular in America. What, isn’t it the same way in France?” Damn it, Galahad was missing another fight scene. He tried to covertly tip his head to see around her.

Mariette bobbed up and down, like she wasn’t sure whether to lie back or not. “I don’t know. I never have had sex.”

It was a good thing they couldn’t see each other. For a second there, Galahad had blanked out so much that he didn’t even remember why the hell the dim light was flickering. Then he remembered about the movie, and the other stuff.

“Okay,” he finally said. Dumb answer, especially since he’d kind of figured she was a virgin from the way she dressed, but still the best he could do on short notice. “And you keep saying we’re not going to. Which I believe, by the way, so don’t start telling me again.”

She didn’t. Instead, she went on another tangent. “I don’t like lying to my parents. And they really wouldn’t approve of you as a…as a boyfriend. So that’s why I don’t want to call you that.”

“Isn’t that just avoiding the question?”

Galahad got the impression Mariette was wrinkling up her nose at him, mostly from the little snort she made. “You’re a philosophy student,” she said almost accusingly.

“Hey, half-economics. And you’re economics, but thanks to Kitty and Arthur’s joint class, you’ve graded enough philosophical bullshit to count as an honorary one,” Galahad shot back. He tilted his head slightly so he’d still look like he was angling her way, but could also see how the man on the screen was whacking off body parts. That was one hell of a broadsword.

A warm weight suddenly prodded and jabbed its way onto him: Mariette, using her elbows and knees way too liberally. “You’re trying to watch the movie.”

This time, she was definitely accusing, though for what reason was completely beyond Galahad’s comprehension. He also wasn’t all that fond of her shift in position, mostly because he’d really like to be fond of it, but he didn’t want to get slapped. She still was stiffer than a corpse, but the curves of her hips were there and her breasts were just grazing his chest.

Galahad bit his lip, silently reminded himself he had to see Mariette every workday no matter what happened, and pushed himself up on his elbows. He had to stop after a couple inches because he was in danger of smashing their noses. “Well, yeah. I thought that’s why we came here.”

She giggled. It was short and nervous. “I thought it was so you could stare at the actress during the sex scene.”

“And you aren’t here because the trailer showed the James Dean-looking guy all sweaty and bare-chested?” Galahad retorted. Actually, Mariette was a lot heavier than she looked. It wasn’t exactly painful to have her lying on him, but it was a lot of pressure that he could’ve done without. At least, not if she was going to insist on the no-sex thing. “Ow. You’re making my legs fall asleep.”

Something small and round poked at the base of Galahad’s throat: her fingertip. It paused, then trailed up his neck and touched the cut on the side of his jaw. He hissed and Mariette rocked back, which kind of exacerbated Galahad’s growing dilemma. She stopped there so she was straddling his waist, and suddenly he really, really wished he could see her face.

“So you want me to move?” she asked. Her voice was funny, like it was trying to go deep but instead her nerves were making it waver all over the place.

Galahad squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them. She was still there. “Mariette, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t somehow like you, but I swear, if you’re taking inspiration from Professor _Cobham_ , I’m gonna…”

“I’m not!” She twisted nervously around. The silhouette of her arm came up, so either she was biting her nails or she was messing with her hair. “But if I were, she—she’s an excellent role model in her fields of expertise.”

“You know, taken certain ways, that’s not all that complimentary to her,” Galahad muttered. He absently glanced at the movie, then just gave up on that. Too many lines had gone by for him to know which grimy leather-dressed guy was fucking with which other grimy leather-dressed guy. “Mariette, look, I don’t think you’re thinking—”

“I am so!” She grabbed his shoulders.

Or maybe he grabbed her arms. Either way, they ended up smushing noses anyway, and Galahad could smell her breath. He turned his head slightly to clear his throat. “Well, you’re not drunk.”

“You had dinner with me. You didn’t notice that?” she tartly said, though that undertone of jumpiness was still there. She sort of pressed forward so her lips moved against the middle of his cheek.

Galahad turned his head back, and while he was pretty sure he didn’t do that so they could lock lips, that was what happened anyway. She’d gotten really good at this part, so once their mouths were properly lined up, they just sort of had to get into it.

A couple seconds later, Galahad became aware that this wasn’t exactly going like it was supposed to. Nothing was wrong with the way their mouths were moving over each other, or how she was curling her tongue kittenishly against the back of his teeth, or how her belly was pressing up against his—

\--fuck. Right. With difficulty, Galahad convinced his hands to move from rubbing the sides of Mariette’s breasts to her arms. Then he got distracted by her rocking up against him, which was still awkward and not exactly on-target, but more or less got the job done-- _damn it_. He pushed her back. “Wait. Mariette—”

“What now?” she snapped. Then she cocked her head, and he didn’t have to see her expression to know that she was doing it because she thought she’d figured it all out, and “it” was somehow insulting to her. “I am not an idiot! I don’t do this because I think it’s an American custom and I have to fit in that badly.”

“Not like you’ve ever really thought that,” Galahad mumbled. He caught himself and got back on track before she could yell at him. “No, listen, I…I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’m turning down _sex_.”

Mariette exhaled sharply, then gave his shoulders a sudden curt push. “You are so—so much of a _bastard_ sometimes.”

“Yeah, well, maybe this is exactly what this bastard wants to avoid. Goddamn it, this is a movie theater! And we’ve got group meeting on Monday and it’s already going to be weird enough without having you all pissed at me too!” It was Galahad’s turn to pointedly exhale. Of course, that wasn’t nearly enough to express the depths of his frustration and utter irritation, so he dropped back. His head smacked dully on the carpet, which helped a little.

On the screen, somebody died with much gurgling, which was a great commentary on their situation.

“…why would I be mad at you?” Mariette finally asked, in so quiet a tone that Galahad almost didn’t realize it was her.

“I don’t know. Because.” Because she got mad for bizarre reasons at the drop of a hat, and what they’d been on the verge of doing would be a hell of a longer jump down than that. Because Galahad always pictured Mariette with having a little more class than a goddamn movie theater. Because he still wasn’t sure that she wasn’t just with him so she could thumb her nose at her parents. Because goddamn it, he’d never had to worry about the morning-after before. “Would you be mad at me?”

Her answer was to slowly climb off of him. She took off her hand last, and it dragged its way across him so one of her nails caught in his shirt and Galahad almost grabbed her wrist. But he let it go, and Mariette sat down beside him with her knees pulled up to her chin. After a minute, she angrily jerked herself out of it and huffed down beside him, grabbing his hand so hard that he thought his wrist was going to break from the whiplash.

“I think I liked his hair better in _Spiderman_ ,” she said. She was trying too hard to sound normal, but he appreciated the effort.

“Yeah. I’m not all that fond of that belt thing the women wear, either. Makes their hips look too big for me.” Galahad hesitated, then tugged his hand free and maneuvered his arm around till it was under Mariette’s head.

A little later, they were snuggled up together and making out like the house was on fire. She was a little more feverish than usual, her nails scratching at his shoulders and her thigh occasionally slipping up to run alongside his interested dick. Which made for a slightly frustrating time, but this kind of frustration was something Galahad was used to. He could deal with it. He had his hands nicely full of her breasts, anyway—she’d let him get her shirt up and her bra unsnapped, and maybe it was still too damn dark, but it was great anyway.

Her hands ran over his back and then went down. They seemed like they were just going to keep on traveling—Galahad stiffened a little—but at the last minute, they detoured back up. And that was how it was for the rest of the movie. Hands above the waist.

* * *

Gawain was still up when Galahad finally got back, watching some History Channel special on ancient Russian burial mounds. He apparently had been dozing, because he startled up and whipped around. When he saw who it was, he relaxed and started blinking sleepily. “So how was it?”

He was still awake enough to sound teasing, Galahad sourly noticed. “We almost had sex.”

Galahad tossed his coat into a chair and wandered around the kitchenette area for a bit, trying to remember why the hell he thought he needed to go in there. Eventually it occurred to him that the beer in the fridge was a good reason, so he got himself a bottle.

It took about that long for Gawain to get everything processed. “Uh, okay. Was she really pissed off at you?”

“ _No_. She’s the one who started it—she got pissed off because I stopped,” Galahad snapped. He stepped over a stack of graded papers on his way into the living room, then flopped down on the other end of the couch.

The TV droned on about Scythians and gold and human sacrifices. Gawain made a couple strangled choking noises.

“You mean Mariette—”

“Why the hell did I do that? Goddamn it, why?” Galahad sat up and kicked at the floor. Then he pressed the cold glass of the bottle against his temple and groaned. “Jesus Christ, I’ve been making time with my hand since…since the fucking summer because I’ve been waiting. And putting up with her temper, and with her…her fucking _French_ attitude, and then I…tell her no. Why?”

The opposite end of the couch kept on choking. “Uh, because you’ve discovered your—”

“Because I didn’t want her to be all weird and angry in the morning! And she would be, because something would’ve gone wrong, or she wouldn’t have liked something that I did afterward because God knows what her idea of afterglow is like, and goddamn it.” The makeshift icepack wasn’t working. Galahad still had a hell of a headache, so he took down the bottle, unscrewed the cap and took a good long swig. “Fuck. I actually care whether she’s around on Monday.”

There was a long silence. Then Gawain held out the remote and turned down the TV volume. “Galahad,” he said seriously, “I think you’re admitting that you and Mariette—”

“Shut up.” One good thing about beer bottles: they were the perfect shape for holding up to block out Galahad’s view of Gawain. “I’m going over to her place next Friday. We’re going to poke fun at Adam Smith’s theories and I think she’s going to try and cook. I think she’s also going to try…yeah.”

“You never had a problem with that before,” Gawain commented. He sounded just neutral enough to not give Galahad a reason for going into the next room and getting drunkenly moody.

Galahad drank some more beer. “I don’t think Mariette’s really the same as them.”

Gawain opened his mouth.

“Shut up.”

“I wasn’t going to say ‘I told you so,’ all right?” Gawain irritably said. He tossed a pillow at Galahad’s head, but either he was really distracted by the TV or he hadn’t been trying at all, because it missed by about six feet. “So what’s the problem? I think at this point, you know each other well enough so that you’ve got a shot at not fucking it up if you really don’t want to.”

“You really sure? I mean, we’re here for two years, minimum. More if we end up going for something beyond a Master’s. And she and I are both under Kitty, and do you know how fucking awkward it’d be if we broke up? I mean, at least you and Tristan are in different departments.” Soon as he’d said the last part, Galahad winced. “Not that I was saying…you know.”

A long breath came out of Gawain’s mouth. “Yeah, I know. Though you still really, really need to learn not to say everything that comes into your head.” He jiggled the couch with his foot. “But you can’t exactly do anything about that now. I mean, whether or not you two want to say…that word…you guys are. It’d be awkward even if you never had sex.”

“Shut up.” The beer was gone and Galahad couldn’t think of anything new to say. This was bad.

Gawain sighed and tossed something else in Galahad’s general direction. It looked like a sweatshirt, but it flew over too fast for Galahad to be sure. “Galahad, this is new for you, and you should in fact be fucking terrified. It might end up being really bad. It might screw you up for the rest of your life. But you know what? It might not. And _nothing_ is gonna tell you which it’ll end up being except actually going out on that limb and trying it.”

“Oh, that’s really helpful.” Galahad stared at the weird battle re-enactment on the TV, idly comparing the armor there to the armor in the movie. The movie’s stuff had been better tailored, but the armor on the TV looked like it’d be more efficient at protecting. Didn’t leave so much exposed.

“Well, I might share this place with you, but I am definitely not your mother,”’ Gawain said, levering himself up. He stopped to pat Galahad on the shoulder and chuckled when Galahad smacked him away. “So Friday, huh? Mind if I have Tristan over?”

Even as good as Gawain and Tristan seemed to be for each other, they still couldn’t always get each other straight. Gawain spent a hell of a lot of his time worrying about that, and he was way more patient than either Galahad or Mariette were. He usually had a much better idea about what he was doing when it came to this stuff, too.

Galahad closed his eyes, then cracked them open. He was sitting down, but he felt like he was teetering on the edge of a long drop. He closed his eyes again. “Fine. But keep it in your room, okay? After tonight, I don’t want to have to worry about our damn couch, too.”

“Right.” Obviously Gawain didn’t understand that at all, but he wasn’t going to argue. “’night, Galahad.”

“Whatever.” The TV was still on, and once Galahad had retrieved the remote and changed the channel, it was actually interesting. Outside it wasn’t exactly silent, but it was pretty quiet for in the middle of the city. Gawain was going to bed, and on Monday Galahad was going to try and talk to his advisor—to both his advisors—without accidentally saying something tactless. He and Mariette were probably also going to have coffee at some point, and sneak into one of the study booths in the u-brary for some heavy petting. And then on Friday.

Well, falling didn’t hurt. But then, he hadn’t actually hit the ground yet.

Galahad sank further down the chair and groaned to himself. He hoped…he really hoped it didn’t hurt. Really.


	4. Instant Replay

Mariette stared. Lancelot and Guinevere stared back. Well, more like Guinevere stared and Lancelot lounged, yawned, and couldn’t stop moving about the sofa till Guinevere was tempted to take a throw pillow and smother him.

“Arthur’s being a while with that coffee, isn’t he?” Lancelot muttered. He rolled over for the umpteenth time so his cheek was resting against the sofa arm, which made his robe billow up…and flop over nearly all of Guinevere’s lap.

She repressed a sigh and gingerly picked it off of her knees. Even his clothes refused to respect other people’s privacy spheres. “You could simply go back to bed. You’re irrelevant to the situation, anyway.”

“Hmm, sorry? Didn’t hear you there, on account of me being so tired and then being woken up only two hours into a nice sleep. I have to admit, that’s the sort of thing that makes me deadly curious.” He shot a pointed look at Mariette.

Normally Guinevere didn’t feel the slightest inclination towards mothering, but right now she thought Lancelot was being a bit of an ass towards Mariette. It wasn’t as if the girl made a habit of showing up on his doorstep at ungodly hours, and she was obviously under a good deal of stress: her hair was down in a rumple around her shoulders, one of her eyes was still a little red from recent crying, and she hadn’t yet said anything to them. Perhaps Mariette could be on the stiff side, but she’d never been terribly shy about speaking up before.

All right, and maybe Guinevere favorably remembered how Mariette had rolled right over Elaine at Thanksgiving. At any rate, she wasn’t in the mood to watch Lancelot tease the other woman. “After the manner of the cat, I suppose. Why don’t you go to sleep and find out in the morning? It’ll risk your neck much less.”

“Why, Guin, I didn’t know—” Lancelot yawned “—you cared so. And here I thought—”

“Sorry I was so long. We’re out of coffee filters so I’ve just tea.” With his usual impeccable timing, Arthur interrupted by setting down a tea-tray complete with tea-cookies. He passed steaming cups around, starting with Mariette. Then he sat down between Guinevere and Lancelot.

Mariette croaked out a thank-you in a voice like a dying accordion, but she also took a sizable helping of cookies, so Guinevere assumed it wasn’t anything that required Arthur to seriously assert loco parentis status. If the girl could still snack, she’d be fine in a few days.

Guinevere absently nibbled on the edge of her cookie while Arthur quietly asked if Mariette wanted to talk about it, then took it away from her mouth. She was impressed: he’d not done the half-hearted thing, but instead had gone straight for the triple-chocolate with fudge icing. And she was slightly annoyed, as she’d been saving those for consoling herself on pulling the Valentine’s Day shift _again_.

“It—it—well.” Mariette crunched off a big piece of cookie and chewed with little sniffly noises mixing into her munching. She tried to sip her tea, but her coordination had slipped a bit so she ended up knocking a chunk of cookie into her cup. “Oh! Oh, damn it. Damn it, damn it, _damn it_ …”

Lancelot drew up his hand to cover the lower half of his face with elaborate casualness. Thankfully, Arthur chose that moment to lean forward, give Mariette a somewhat awkward pat on the head and murmur something nice in French. This allowed Guinevere to reach behind him and give the prick on the other end of the sofa a good smack to the head. A yelp almost made it out of Lancelot’s mouth, but at the last moment he traded it for a kicked-puppy look. Which everyone ignored.

“It—I had Galahad over for dinner, and he—we—” Mariette started again.

Arthur drew back, face clouding over with conflicted apprehension. But before he could say anything, Mariette caught him at it and wildly shook her head.

“No, no! You should not be mad at him. It was not—”

Looking very relieved, Arthur relaxed. Then he pulled himself up again, probably thinking that that wasn’t an appropriate expression, and handed Mariette another cookie. He took her cup from her and used a teaspoon to fish out the cookie-bit before refilling it. “Start at the beginning.”

She obligingly opened her mouth, then closed it and looked utterly lost.

Lancelot stopped glaring at Guinevere long enough to be useful for the one time he apparently was allotted per day. “What were you cooking?”

It was an objective yet relevant question that would let Mariette approach the situation from a tangent. It was nice to see the bastard had retained something from his interrogation/interview training.

Mariette took a deep breath while staring into her new cup of tea. “I…well, Gawain told me Galahad likes Spanish food, but I didn’t know what so I decided to make tapas. I was cooking the sausage…”

* * *

When the door buzzer went off, Mariette jumped so high that she dropped the spatula and almost got hot grease on her foot. She danced back, then cursed floridly the way her Marseilles girlfriend had taught her and grabbed the spatula back up. The sausages were only half-done, but she didn’t trust her stove to not make a disaster while she ran to the door.

Plus she had a dirty floor and her one spatula was also dirty. She hurriedly glanced around, trying to remember what her mother did when her dinner cooking was interrupted. She didn’t want the chorizo to burn, especially since it was genuine imported and had been about the most expensive item she’d bought on this grocery trip.

The buzzer went off again. Mariette spun around. In the middle of all the blurring, a dull silver streak stuck out: her wok lid. She snatched it up, tossed it over the saucepan and put the spatula in the sink for scrubbing later. Then she took a step towards the door, only to turn back because she needed to turn down the burner heat. Her phone went off.

She started to make a lunge for it, but in the middle of doing so, realized that it had to be Galahad calling her and instead went for the door. While she pressed the button to unlock the front door, she hastily checked herself in a nearby mirror. Despite all the gel she’d used, some strands had worked loose from her bun and due to the kitchen heat and her sweat, they’d started to curl up. She sighed and tried to tuck them back in, but had to leave them be when she remembered she hadn’t wiped up the spot on the kitchen floor.

Mariette had just flung the dishrag onto the counter and had been about to wash off the spatula when there came a knocking on the door. She dropped the spatula again—in the sink this time, thank God—and ran back to the front.

She pulled on the knob a little too quickly and had to grab on the door for support. Her breathing sounded harsh and loud, and she tried to will it into calming down. “I was cooking. That was why I couldn’t come faster. You didn’t have to call me.”

“Yeah, well, the guy smoking in the doorway was giving me a weird look. I was just checking—don’t get all worked up,” Galahad said, casually walking in. He’d never actually been to Mariette’s apartment, but that was not at all obvious from how he strolled around. He held up a brown sack. “So…I didn’t know what you were cooking, but Gawain said I should bring this and I figured he’d probably gotten his information from Tristan…”

“You brought wine?” Oh. Oh, and Mariette had forgotten…she generally didn’t keep wine around unless she was expecting company, since all the brands she liked were too expensive here.

Galahad blinked, then pulled out the bottle. “Yep. Red. So where’s your kit—”

“I’m not done yet. Give it to me and I’ll take care of it,” Mariette said. She also reached out for the bottle, but a little too fast so Galahad jerked away in surprise. She was acting nervous.

She _was_ nervous. Her stomach was queasy and she wasn’t sure how she was going to finish cooking, and now she wondered why on earth she was an economics major. If she’d been a psychology major, then maybe she would have understood what was going on and how to deal with it.

“I don’t want you to see dinner yet,” she tried saying in a softer, slower tone. She sounded strained.

After a moment, Galahad surrendered the bottle of wine. He looked around the apartment again. “Uh. Okay. So what am I supposed to—”

Mariette made her escape back to the kitchen and lifted the lid to see that her chorizo were still fine. She breathed a sigh of relief and turned to rinse off the spatula, only to step in the damp spot the rag had left. She didn’t fall, but her hip smacked into the counter rather hard. Biting back a cry of pain, Mariette got the sausages taken care of and started on chopping onions. At least she was already tearing up, she grimly thought.

* * *

“…really nice. Not like, millionaire, you know, but her parents definitely are shelling out when it comes to her apartment. I was trying not to stare, but I was thinking sort of that when she was over at our place, she must have been…goddamn it, why am I talking to you again?” Galahad threw up his hands and let his arms fall over the back of the couch. He stared up at the ceiling, wondered why little bones were hanging from the vent, and hastily looked back down.

Tristan hadn’t reacted, as usual. He just sipped his beer. “Because Gawain is coming down with a cold, so he came over to my place to rest up and the medicine he took put him out while I was heating up soup for our dinner. You can’t talk to him.”

“Idiot. Him and cold medicine…he’s always been like that, you know. Just a little and he’s out like a light,” Galahad muttered. Fuck. It would figure that when Galahad really, actually did need to ask Gawain for advice, Gawain would be out cold. “How long before he’s up, do you think?”

And it figured that the last person Galahad wanted to discuss this with would be the only available ear around. Well, okay, Tristan wasn’t the absolute last person, but he was pretty damn near the end. Thing was, Galahad really needed to talk to someone. It was like an itch between his shoulderblades, and if he didn’t get it taken care of, he was going to end up crashing a store-window again.

…that metaphor had pretty damn well derailed itself. Galahad sighed and looked up as Tristan, who’d briefly ducked into the bedroom, came back. Tristan shook his head. “No, he’s gone for the rest of the night. If he’d taken one more teaspoon, I’d be detoxing him in the bathroom.”

“So I’m left with you.” Great. About the only thing currently going Galahad’s way was the fact that Tristan, however the hell he managed it, stocked _amazing_ beer. But even that wasn’t doing much to cheer up Galahad right now.

The couch creaked as Tristan began to sit back down. Then he stopped, reached beneath himself, and rooted out a very relieved-looking squirrel from the cushions. He scooted it off towards the bedroom before he got back on the couch. “Gawain said you were over at Mariette’s.”

“That thing isn’t going to mistake Gawain’s hair for a nesting spot, is it?” Galahad said, staring at the squirrel. It was abnormally small, but it made up for that in temper: it stopped in the middle of the hallway and chittered at him before vanishing into the shadows. Little bastard.

“Did she burn dinner?” Tristan asked.

Galahad paused, then put his beer on a sidetable. “Are you trying to get me to talk about this?”

Tristan resumed sipping his beer and casually watching Galahad, as if he had already read the whole story from the way Galahad’s shirt was wrinkled. He probably could, damn it, and Galahad had forgotten to check over his clothes before he’d pulled them back on. Shit.

Well, then Galahad really had nothing to lose, didn’t he. “No. Mariette’s a good cook, actually. Kinda light on the hot pepper, but not bad otherwise.”

* * *

The apartment clearly hadn’t been decorated by Mariette, Galahad decided. She could be snotty, but she didn’t have the self-confidence that would let her peer down her nose like things in the mud weren’t even worth stepping on. And that was exactly what the apartment said to Galahad. He was a little glad she’d run back to the kitchen, since that meant she didn’t see how fidgety he was getting.

Of course, he was also a little miffed that she’d just leave him standing there. What was he supposed to do now? Stare at the Cubist prints? Make small talk with the brushed-steel furniture?

He carefully ignored the hallway that had to lead to the bedroom. Everything that went along with that hung heavy in the air, but for once, he wasn’t interested in pulling at it. To be honest, contemplating that stuff still made his stomach a bit queasy even though it was a week later.

“All right, you can come in now.” Mariette sort of edged her hair around the corner. Her hair, because the rest of the head didn’t appear. “I mean, dinner is ready. I—”

“Great! I’m starving!” Yeah, great. She sounded like a dropped teaspoon would set her off, and to compensate, some part of Galahad’s mind thought it’d be good for him to sound asininely cheerful. He was doing a _great_ impression of a caffeine-high Gawain.

Dinner was ready, and talking about how good it was got them through about ten minutes. Galahad honestly didn’t care how the fuck Mariette got her chorizos to be nice and crispy on the outside—well, he did, in that he really liked it, but he didn’t in that he didn’t need a cooking lesson. On the other hand, she managed to fill up a lot of awkward pauses that way.

“It tastes like one of my favorite places back in L. A.,” Galahad said when the next pause stumbled between them. He figured she’d gotten the last three, so he’d better get one or else she might stop being nervous and start being lecturing again.

“Really?” Mariette blushed. Thankfully, she hadn’t lit any candles or anything stupid like that so she just looked cute instead of…yeah. She poked at her rice. “Gawain, ah, said you ate a lot of Spanish and Mexican food there.”

They had, and as Galahad forked up another helping, he was suddenly hit by homesickness. It wasn’t a wave so much as a…pointed tap on the head, but it was there. He put down his fork and just stared at the tortillas for a moment. He hadn’t really thought about L. A. since they’d gotten to New York, and he’d been glad of that: the West Coast had been more bad than good to them. But the food had been damned good, for one.

“Did you…live around a lot of them?” Mariette asked. She winced and started to clarify who she meant.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, we were kind of on the border between the black and Latino ghettos.” The other stuff, however, Galahad wasn’t sure he really wanted to discuss with Mariette. For all her liberal proclamations, she was very conservative when it came to following the law, and Galahad had broken way more than one of those. “This is good. You usually do this kind of stuff for dinner?”

Oh, smart. Galahad was tired of talking about cooking, so he was going to ask a cooking-related question. He really should’ve talked Mariette into trying an arcade, or something like that instead where alternative topics would have been obvious.

“No, not really. I cook Lorraine food, since my mother was from there. And sometimes U. S. Southern. My father taught two years at a university in Georgia and he is very fond of their style.” Mariette tipped her head and shrugged. A little piece of her hair flopped out of her bun and curled up among the other strayed locks at the back of her neck. “It is bad for the heart, but I have to admit I like deep-fried chicken. But cooking it is so—I always think I’ll set the kitchen on fire.”

“You should get a deep fryer. Bed’s got this amazing one he built out of leftover car parts—” Galahad saw her disbelief and faint disgust coming, and waved it off with his hand “—no, no, we cleaned them all first. Christ, even we know gasoline makes lousy cooking oil.”

A little giggle escaped from Mariette, though she was trying to look disapproving. She absently topped off Galahad’s glass, which reminded him…but hers was still mostly full. Good, since he really didn’t feel like dealing with her drunk again. “Are you sure it won’t blow up on you?”

“Of course!” Galahad ate some food, thought about it, and sat back. “Well, okay, not with most things. The time with the deep-fried turkey was a little touch-and-go…”

* * *

“It sounds like it was a good dinner,” Arthur said. He topped off Mariette’s cup and then offered the pot to Guinevere, who turned it down, and Lancelot, who took the pot from him and took care of himself.

Arthur eyed Lancelot’s fluttering lashes and wondered if he could possibly put the conversation on hold long enough to shoo the other man back to the bedroom. As flattering as Lancelot’s insistence on staying with Arthur was, his constant yawning and nuzzling up to Arthur’s shoulder was not precisely conducive to calming Mariette down. It also was rather distracting.

“It was. Dinner was fine. He was…nice.” Mariette gave her cup a wondering look. Then her brows drew together and she laughed a little, muttering in French to the effect that he must have been more nervous than her. “Then we washed the dishes.”

“Mariette, if this is intrusive, I apologize, but were you going into this dinner with any kind of…expectations?” Guinevere asked.

Lancelot perked up, which severely tempted Arthur to put his throw pillows to unorthodox use. Instead he moved so his shoulder should have been blocking most of the other man from Mariette’s view.

Guinevere seemed to know exactly what Lancelot was up to even though she was looking straight at Mariette. Her arm grazed over Arthur’s back and a second later, Lancelot jerked forward with a muffled yelp. She ignored that and smiled nicely at Mariette. “It’s all right. We’re asking in hopes of being able to understand the situation better so we can help. We’re not gossips only interested in salacious nonsense.”

Lancelot did an awful job of hiding an offended expression in his tea-cup. He tugged at his robe, then dropped his hand to cradle his cup between his knees. “Of course not. Arthur’s concern is our concern.”

“Don’t let’s make it sound like a mafia operation,” Guinevere hissed out of the side of her mouth.

Arthur had been reaching for a cookie right about then, so he took advantage of the coincidence and rattled the plate. “Sorry. Have another?” he said to Mariette.

“No, thank you.” She settled back in the chair and stared off into space, chewing on her lip. Her hand tightened so much around her cup and saucer that Arthur just about resigned himself to having an odd-numbered set, but then she gave a firm nod to herself and put down the cup. “I did. I wanted things to go…to go right.”

* * *

Things were going much better now, Mariette decided. Men and cars were weird and she still didn’t understand the fascination, but she was grateful to it for saving the night from stumbling so hard it broke its neck. After that, the conversation had gone like it usually did around Galahad: on the provoking side, sometimes funny, and with that odd undertone, like warm water running through her fingers.

“No, the other towel. So Tristan really jumped out the window? Wasn’t Arthur worried?” She rinsed off the bowl, then started to put it on the rack. As she did, she caught sight of a couple suds she’d missed and ran the dish under the water again.

Standing beside her, Galahad wrinkled up his nose and thwapped the wet towel against the counter so little droplets pattered over their faces. He recoiled a little with narrowed eyes. “What is it with girls and towels? Jesus. You know how many kinds Gawain and I have? Two—the big ones and the small ones.”

“Unsanitary.” Mariette wrinkled her own nose, though she kept her eyes on the sink since now she was doing the wineglasses. She’d already broken one and chipped another, and she didn’t want to lose any more; they’d been a gift from her mother.

But she wasn’t going to think about her parents right now. She’d sworn to herself she wouldn’t—her parents were in France, and even if they were still paying the bills, they were most certainly not running every detail of her life. They didn’t own her thoughts.

“Well, you wash all of them, don’t you? So where’s the germs then?” Galahad picked up the other towel, whooshed it over the bowl in his other hand and was onto the first wineglass. He stopped when Mariette disbelievingly poked at the bone-dry bowl, then grinned. “Some working-class tricks come in handy. We worked in a lot of restaurants, places like that.”

“Were you fired often?” Mariette dryly said. At least, she’d meant it dryly, but for some reason, her jokes always came out too aggressive-sounding in English. She braced herself.

It looked as if Galahad was going to take offense, but then he shook his head and just picked up the next glass. “Okay, yeah, but Gawain had his share, too. He punched out the manager once for shorting our pay—knocked him clear over the bar so we were afraid he’d end up in a coma. Moron. That’s as bad as Tristan jumping out the fucking _window_ just because he found out Gawain wasn’t mad at him anymore. Real great apology he’d make, if we’d had to ship him to a doctor for a broken leg.”

“Arthur could have taken care of that. I broke my thumb once and he took care of it. It impressed my mother a lot.” And not much did, Mariette thought to herself. When her mother did talk about men, it usually was to compare them unfavorably to her husband. They more or less worshipped each other, only that was not quite the right word for it. Flattered, perhaps.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess.” Galahad racked the last glass and flicked the towel at the counter again. He cocked his head, eying the splatters, and then bent his wrist so he could make more at a perpendicular angle to the first. “He looked kind of freaked-out, but only for a second. I guess Tristan must do that…well, not a lot, because he doesn’t get upset often, but it must be a common reaction for him for that situation. I really don’t understand why Gawain likes him so much some—hey!”

“Stop getting my counter wet!” Mariette scolded, grabbing for the towel. She caught the edge, but hadn’t gotten hold of enough of it to pull it free before Galahad had yanked it back. She hung on and was pulled forward so they fell against each other.

There was an awkward, unsure moment. There always was; they weren’t like the couples in the movies who always knew where the hands went and when to duck down. They usually were upset at each other, though more often that was closer to annoyed than truly mad.

But there was heat, too—at least on her side. That part, the movies were right about. It flared out from Mariette’s belly, flushed her cheeks and turned the place between her legs tense with swelling warmth. She always felt as if she should cross her legs, squeeze it out of her, and before, that had been what she’d done. But she did want this, and this was healthy and natural, and she wanted this with him no matter what her not-here parents would have said.

Their hands were twisted up in the towel, her fingers fleshed out from bony and his softened by the wet nubbly fabric. She wrapped her hand around it more till she felt the back of his hand and tugged; Galahad tugged back so she was thrown slightly off-balance. He was mumbling, too, and it almost sounded like he was comforting himself.

His mouth hit too far up, and hers too far left, so they had to clumsily work themselves around to make it fit. Somewhere along the line, he put his arm around her shoulders so her bun, already in danger, finally lost hold. The weight of her tumbling hair pulled back her head so her mouth opened, and he took that as a sign to slide in his tongue. It tickled, and she giggled and she didn’t know exactly how he took that but she had to grab his shoulder to keep him from pulling back. His arm moved and caught some of the half-loose pins so her hair snarled, pulled in quick bursts of pinprick pain against her scalp.

She moved forward to get away from that and ended up pressing against him, which she’d done before but somehow she was more aware of it now. She was thinking about it, thinking that his stomach was very flat—flatter and firmer than hers, which pricked at her pride so she kissed him hard—and his hipbones were very sharp. Her hand slid down his back and across it as he swayed, stumbled back against the counter, and she felt a jagged ridge that she curiously traced.

He flinched at first, then twisted so the scar pressed into her hand. Mariette peeled up his shirt and splayed her fingers over it, found that that way the tip of her little finger touched another scar that was very round and much smaller. Gun, she was thinking, but he pulled off her mouth and took a shallow deep breath whose exhale was very hot on her chin, and the middle of her thought dragged out till his mouth caught it moving sluggishly along her throat and swallowed it.

She made a sound then, some sound she didn’t really hear, and slid against him so some oddity in the smooth line of his front snagged between her thigh and her stomach. Then it gave, changed a little, and that was odd so she moved back down it. And it rose a little more, and suddenly she understood and her knees were wobbly while her head filled with a loud, nervous buzzing. Her fingers dug into Galahad’s waist and he muffled a noise against her shoulder, his fingers slipping beneath and over, beneath and over the hem of her blouse. He was still standing up.

Mariette forced herself to remember how much wine she’d drank. One cup, over how many hours…not that much, because she remembered earlier that she’d been thinking it was a good wine and she was going to have so much left over for later, that she’d have to thank Gawain. And for the dish-washing, because she had a feeling Galahad had remembered to volunteer just because Gawain had told him to.

Galahad’s hand slid all the way beneath her blouse, then stared to move up. He always…Mariette grabbed his wrist and pushed it down; he resisted at first, but then went with her. When his hand got to her waist, he tried to stop again and she kept pushing. He stopped kissing her neck and drew back so she could blurrily see the side of his eye.

“Mar—”

She kissed him again, and he went with her hand down her hip and then up beneath her skirt. The tense feeling, as if all the muscles angling down to the clit were drawn up tight against the bone, increased, but at the same time it felt as if she was softening in the heat, growing loose and trembling. She wanted more of that. She did.

* * *

Most people thought Tristan was unfazed by anything, and he generally was. But in all honesty, he was not comfortable with the turn this discussion with Galahad had taken.

Actually, it wasn’t a discussion. Galahad had been talking about doing the dishes and then he’d trailed off after saying that Mariette had started things. He’d never clarified what “things” was supposed to mean. He’d simply stared straight ahead of himself, eyes going in and out of focus. Occasionally he had taken a sip from his beer, which was still only the first one Tristan had handed him. It was entirely possible that Tristan could drop the expressionless look and go with a face that matched his inner feelings better, and Galahad would never have any idea as to the difference.

Tristan could fill in the blanks, if he wanted to. His mind did that with enough of them to bring out the shape of the general idea, then left the rest alone. It actually wanted to think about his mother—not the quietly lethal, carefully-spoken woman Tristan remembered, but the half-fanciful one from Arthur’s rare tidbits of them as young men and women in a dangerous profession. Arthur must have seen what his mother had been like when in love, Tristan sometimes thought, though he’d never asked. The reluctant clues Arthur had dropped about that pointed towards an impulsive, fiercely affectionate personality that would have been almost alien to Tristan, had he met his mother then.

“It was good,” Galahad finally said. He tipped back his head to stare at the ceiling, then pulled himself up and forward so he could hunch over his knees. He let the half-full bottle dangle between them. “It was…fuck, well, you wouldn’t know really, would you? You’re always so sure about everything. I wasn’t sure about anything. Fuck. I wish Gawain was up.”

So did Tristan. And he didn’t, and he did again. Gawain would understand perfectly, since that was an accepted part of his life. It was stability he didn’t always know, and oddly enough, it was that that Tristan knew best—he was flexible, but he was flexible in that he always could create a space that he could understand and act in, no matter how chaotic the surroundings. He wasn’t so certain when it came to not having that space and simply acting according to the flow of everything else.

“You know, it was so planned out.” Galahad covered half his face with his hand, then laughed quietly. He shook his head and took a big swallow of beer. “It was so planned out. She knew what was coming, and I did, and somehow we both forgot what we were supposed to do. It just sort of…yeah.”

Something else Tristan had never asked about had been what of his mother was in him. If any of that old spontaneity had outlasted the fear of having no arrangements for worst-case scenarios, of being left in the dark and cold without knowing that someone was coming back for them. He’d never wondered about it much either, till recently. “It’s rarely the feeling that bothers people,” he said slowly. “It’s everything else that comes with it.”

Galahad gave him a sharp look, but after a breathless moment, Tristan understood that the other man was just surprised at how well Tristan had apparently summed up the situation. “Yeah. Yeah, pretty much.” Shrug. “But fuck, at least I stayed around. Mariette? Fuck.”

* * *

“Bedroom, bedroom, we’ve got to—” Galahad was gasping even though they were through the door and he could see the bed.

Mariette clawed up him, elbows and knees bumping as hard as her body moved sweetly, and covered his mouth with her own. She backed up into the mattress, then knocked them over. And then it was a mess of clothing.

That, Galahad was decently good at. He could strip off skirts without ripping them and handle bra-hooks without looking, though this time it was harder to do it. He nearly tore Mariette’s blouse because he was so deeply involved in running his mouth over her breasts, in licking around her nipple. It was browner than he’d figured, but the moment he saw it, he liked it. Liked it a lot, and apparently she appreciated that so he stayed with it. His hands were working down between her legs, because girls never got much of that and they always—

\--she arched so he saw the long curve of her throat and he was fascinated by it, swept his thumb over her clit again, but this time she bent the other way, curved over him so her breasts hung heavy before his face. She was pulling hard at his pants and he lifted his hips, then remembered about his belt. Cursing, he reached down and undid it, and suddenly her hand was there and fuck, it was almost, _almost_ like he was a fucking teenage virgin again. He shouldn’t be like that. He’d…something. Some drops of sweat hanging from the underside of her chin, and he stretched up to lick at them and over they went.

Mariette exhaled sharply, said something in French-English mix that Galahad thought was about not getting enough of a look, except he’d made sure she wasn’t tipsy. He really needed to pick up some more French.

He kissed her hard, then reached for the drawer of the bedside table before he completely forgot. He was still running on old habits here, but they suddenly felt all new and nervous, unformed. Frankly, he was fucking glad that she was predictable here because if he’d had to look for a condom, he might’ve just ended up running out of the room. He got the damned thing on him and crawled back up; she’d come over so Galahad did that by nuzzling his way along her. “Okay, that’s done. We’d definitely have to talk to your parents if—”

“What?” she said, palm flat against his belly. It was warm, and lightly pressing, and he liked its presence there, keeping the connection even if the other stuff had briefly paused.

He realized she wasn’t the only one dropping into the wrong language, realized also that explaining now that his first girl had been Latino so that was why he’d been muttering in Spanish would be bad, and shrugged. “Sorry.”

Mariette sighed and pulled him down, and then they were wrapped up in each other again. She was all over the place, testing and searching and poking as if they hadn’t been making out like crazy with plenty of groping for the past few months. Galahad tried to grab at her a few times, thinking that he’d been a little worried about her…not being ready, or something?...and that he wanted to do…to…he wanted to suck on her skin till it stopped being sweet. Except that didn’t really seem to happen.

He pushed himself up to drag his head between her breasts and her knee prodded him in the side. He moved away from it and suddenly he was between her sprawled legs, and her hands were over his hands were over her hips, and she was tossing her beautiful hair against the mattress.

It was just so easy to slide up and inside, and he did even though he was thinking for some reason that he needed to do more first even though he couldn’t think of what more was supposed to include. It was smooth and good and then it was stuck, or—Mariette suddenly went rigid, her nails gouging into his shoulders, and all Galahad’s stomach-twisting came back. “What?”

“Quoi? Tu dis—je ne compre—” Her face had been screwed up in…pain?...but now it cleared, then screwed up in confusion. 

Then she abruptly tossed her head and her nails dug in harder, but they were pulling at Galahad and his stomach sickness hadn’t yet reached his brain so he went with her. He forced up, and he was aware of a new weird feeling during that, a sudden give, but Mariette cried out and he was carried along with it.

It seemed like the cry never ended, or maybe it did but the next ones came so closely on its heels that it made no difference. He pressed his face into her sweaty throat, smelled her, felt her, and her hands scraped over his back, as if she couldn’t get a hold. She still tried, though, and sometime during it her legs wrapped around him and then they were rocking together, finally matched up, and Galahad just thought that it was perfect.

* * *

“It was…” Mariette’s brows drew together as she searched for the word “…was marvelous. It hurt a lot afterward, but it was so…right then.”

Good for her, Lancelot sleepily thought. Sometimes people were so turned off by their first time that they never really got over it, and that tended to ruin them as for any kind of company. They saw everything in terms of that one moment where expectations had completely failed them, and always expected that afterward.

Arthur hesitantly apologized to Mariette in French about not asking earlier, and did she need any aspirin. A tiny snort came from Guinevere’s side; for once she was exasperated at Arthur instead of Lancelot. Frankly, Lancelot would have done the same if he wasn’t so damned sleepy. God, but Mariette really had picked her time for confessing about her deflowering.

Mariette smiled. It was a smile that had the kind of indulgent humor virgins never could come up with, since they’d not yet indulged in the first place. “No, I am fine. Though…I hope Galahad was all right. He was startled at the blood.”

That was interesting, given what Lancelot had managed to piece together of Galahad and Gawain’s background. For all that Arthur wanted to be normal and relatively unremarkable, he seemed to insist on surrounding himself with…unusual people. He’d had that habit in the past, and he’d never really lost it. He probably still hadn’t realized he had it.

“Did he make any kind of comment? Is that why you’re upset?” Arthur delicately queried.

“Oh, no. No, he…that was not it.” A long pause ensued, long enough to make Lancelot look over at Mariette. She was staring at her cup, but she slowly put that on the table and then wrapped her arms around herself. Her head gradually tipped forward, as if she was going to cry. “That was…not…it was me, not him.”

Guinevere cleared her throat; she must have been in the middle of a cookie. “What, did he say you weren’t very good, or some idiocy like that?”

“And thank you, Guin, for putting your faith in man’s better nature,” Lancelot muttered. He felt Arthur’s shoulder shift beneath his head, and a second later, Arthur’s arm had curved around him to lay a hand on his waist. It was part-gesture of affection, part-warning. “She said it wasn’t something he said. So what was it?”

“Lancelot. Be civil or go upstairs,” Arthur snapped beneath his breath. He glanced at Lancelot with surprising heat, and not of the anticipating kind.

Lancelot was a little taken aback, but on further reflection, unrepentant. After Arthur’s little confession in the elevator, Lancelot had resolved to be more attentive to what was going on with the other man. It wasn’t as he’d thought—past and present weren’t separable when it came to Arthur, and if he wanted to ever understand the other man, he’d have to learn about both at once.

And yes, it was because he was just that much more worried that some midnight visitor was going to send Arthur off on another idiotic self-imposed mission, and he’d sleep through it.

“No, it’s fine. I should get to the point,” Mariette said. “I…I had to leave. I…I am embarrassed…no, I’m ashamed now, but I was afraid. I still am afraid.”

* * *

After Galahad had calmed down, and they’d changed the bedsheets—it hadn’t stained through to the mattress, she was relieved to see—Galahad flopped down and was almost instantly asleep. Mariette stayed awake longer, and not only because despite aspirin, the ache in her was still sharp whenever she moved her legs too fast.

It’d been so much better than she’d thought it would be, even with all the little imperfections. She couldn’t help smiling a little as she played with his hair. Dandelions…such a funny name for a flower.

It was so funny that it would be him, because he was everything she’d been brought up to avoid. But her parents were like that: contradictory. They were liberal in their politics and conservative in their morals. They were incredibly generous from a distance, but up close they were snobs. Sometimes she had thought about enrolling in one of her parents’ classes to see if she’d get the nicer treatment they gave their students.

They loved her, of course, but they had made things so difficult. They _would_ make things so difficult, if they knew. But they didn’t have to know. This was America, and this was different. This was her life.

But they were going to visit eventually, and then Mariette would have to hide this even though she thought it was stupid. They’d call it foolish rebellion, point out all the ways Galahad was just a symbol for everything that she disagreed with when it came to their beliefs, and—and—and—

She rolled over and stared at the ceiling, despair rapidly crushing out the leftover glow. She still wasn’t free of them, no matter what she wanted to think. What about that stupid conversation in the theater, when she’d told Galahad why she didn’t want to say they were dating? Because it made it easier to lie to her parents? A lot of people would have stormed out on her. He didn’t like it, that was plain, and he wouldn’t like the idea that he’d have to be hidden, or that he was just a symbol, which he wasn’t, but still…

She wanted to call him her boyfriend. She wanted—

It sounded much easier in the books, she thought. Sexual freedom, not putting requirements on a relationship, not demanding anything in trade for sex. Just walking away if it ever became too horrible. The problem was, it was not horrible—it was _wonderful_. Which was horrible. Her thoughts were going in circles, and the more they did, the faster they whirled till she could hardly keep track of them, know which way was up and down and where she should go.

Mariette was up and off the bed before she knew it, and she didn’t even stop to look at him till she had on a loose pair of trousers. Then she did, and her heart thumped up so hard against her chest that she knew it was going to be impossible. Staying here _was_ impossible. She didn’t know what to do. She was just stumbling, stumbling, stumbling.

* * *

“I wake up and she’s not there. For ten minutes I’m freaking out, thinking maybe I—I don’t know, damaged her and she’s at the hospital. Then I’m trying to think logically and I’m checking the whole place, checking the front, checking the cornerstores because maybe she had the munchies even though she’s got a full fridge—” Galahad threw up his arms, then slumped back against the couch. All that remembered panic welled up as bitter resentment.

And yeah, a little black irony, because his little Gawain-voice had to say well, considering all the other girls, it was about time that happened to you. Thing was, Galahad was feeling so crappy that he was almost ready to believe that.

“You’ve never been with a virgin before.” Tristan was doing the eyebrow-arching thing again.

Rolling his eyes, Galahad struggled to hold onto his temper. “No, I haven’t. Look, it wasn’t really a common thing in my old neighborhood, okay? Because well, most of the guys back there thought a virgin would be crap at sex, so they wanted somebody experienced. Which meant the girls were going to lie about it, or get fucked early, or whatever.”

“Maybe she had an emergency phone call,” Tristan said.

“No, then she would’ve left a note. She’s really—particular about that. This just looks like she ran out of there, and you know, I don’t want to think about what that means but I am anyway, and they’re all bad scenarios.” Galahad had a headache. And he was tired, and this so wasn’t how he’d thought the night would go. He wanted to go to bed and wake up in a world where this had never happened. The only good thing about this was that he could stick it in Gawain’s face and say he had been dead fucking wrong, except that wasn’t really a good thing. That was just bitter.

Long stretch of silence. Just when Galahad was almost ready to declare Tristan dead, the other man broke it. “Galahad. No matter what the reason for her leaving, she’ll have to go back sooner or later. She lives there. And if you aren’t there, it—”

“—won’t look good? No shit. But maybe I don’t want it to look good now, considering.”

“—it won’t give her any good reason to explain things to you. If she’s afraid, it won’t make her less so,” Tristan calmly finished. Too calmly.

He was a deadpan guy, and he wasn’t Galahad’s boyfriend or pseudo-son, but nevertheless Galahad was learning a couple tricks when it came to reading him. He gave Tristan a good, long stare. “You speaking from experience? You know, Gawain has been freaking out way too much lately, and usually it’s over you.”

Tristan didn’t twitch. It was more like a flicker. “He has a lot to consider right now about his future, I think.”

“Oh, whatever. He always does—that’s him. He’s bad about that, you know. Not everything can be planned for, and sometimes it’s better without one. Sometimes you just take what’s coming, with what you’ve got.” Galahad paused, then had to laugh. “Fuck. Listen to me. With tonight…but it’s still true. Have you ever thought that maybe thinking all the time about the really bad things that could happen is a great way to _make_ them happen?”

For a while, Tristan just looked at Galahad. Then he got up and picked Galahad’s bottle off the table, then walked towards the kitchen. “You can be remarkably smart for someone that never uses it. Go back there. If her fridge is so full, you should be able to handle breakfast without much of a problem.”

“Steal her food?” Galahad said. His incredulousness was more because Tristan was being so…helpful, in a way, than because of the idea of it.

“Whatever,” Tristan deadpanned. If Gawain hadn’t been so in love with the jackass, Galahad would’ve punched him right there.

And okay, if Galahad also wasn’t in the process of taking his advice.

* * *

“I don’t know how it will work. I don’t know if…if I can explain…I can’t explain.” The last few words nearly burst from Mariette’s mouth. “You don’t know a word I am saying, do you?”

“I think I understand rather more than you think,” Arthur said. His tone perked up Guinevere’s fading attention: it was decisive, not hesitant at all, and even faintly commanding. It definitely wasn’t something to which Mariette was accustomed, judging by her startled expression. “Mariette, if it’s your parents’ financial support you’re concerned about, I doubt they’d go to such extremes. They may seem…stern, but they do love you and at the end of the day, they want you to be happy.”

The girl stammered a bit, then opened her mouth.

“And if that does happen, arrangements can be made. I give you my promise on that. Now, about the rest…please don’t be afraid of the good things in life simply because they may turn sour later. ‘May’ is always an uncertainty and shouldn’t be relied upon.” Arthur poured himself a cup of tea while holding Mariette’s gaze. Mesmerized, she didn’t notice at all how he handled everything with an eerily silent grace. His old self was coming out a bit.

Finally she nodded, and dropped her head. Then her shoulders hunched up. “It could turn out like my parents,” she said, so softly that Guinevere almost didn’t hear her. “It’s—it’s silly. I feel old, too old to be learning how to do this. I left it too long, peut-être. I don’t know what to do.”

“I honestly doubt that anyone ever really does, no matter what their age.” The little smile that crinkled at the corners of Arthur’s mouth meant a good deal more to Guinevere and Lancelot than it did to the clueless girl on the opposite seat.

“But the way I left—”

“Is always going to be ‘you left’ and nothing more unless you go back and see. Here, your cup’s empty.” After filling it, Arthur passed it to Mariette. He gave her hands a squeeze before he let them go. “Drink it up, and while you’re doing that, think very carefully about this question: do you regret what you did? Ignore the fear and concentrate on that. Then you’ll at least know what to do next.”

Guinevere had a bet on half the cup. Mariette drank about a third before she got up and made an abrupt good-bye.

“I figured on three-quarters of the cup. Quick girl,” Lancelot said after they’d seen her to the door.

Arthur sighed as he threw the locks again. “Do you ever stop?”

“I’ll do that when I’m made to. At least then I won’t ever regret not being the one to make the last try,” Lancelot snapped. He hesitated, then ducked away and headed up the stairs at a fair clip considering his lethargy earlier.

For a long moment, Arthur stared after him. Then he glanced at Guinevere, who’d come up beside him. “He’s gotten more…”

“He’s worried. We’re getting closer to putting Clayton and the smuggling ring he’s part of away for good, only it’s looking explosive. _I’m_ worried.” Guinevere reached out so their hands grazed, then slowly wrapped her fingers around Arthur’s. “We might have to…”

“I’ve always known that.” Said in a quiet tone that told her nothing about Arthur’s actual feelings on the subject. He bent his head and drew up her hand to his mouth, then pulled her towards the stairs. “I think this once, the dishes can wait till tomorrow. To bed?”

She debated whether to force the subject now, but refrained once she’d gotten a good look at his face. His eyes were tired, and they were begging her. She reluctantly acquiesced.

* * *

Galahad jumped when the door opened, but the bacon fat was really popping now, and he needed to finish getting the strips onto a plate. Once he’d done that, he looked up.

“Hi,” Mariette hesitantly said. She looked like she’d run at the slightest movement.

“Hey.” He took the skillet off the stove and started to take it to the sink. “I was just making myself breakfast.”

One corner of her mouth twitched. “With my food?”

_Well, you were gone, and I thought I deserved something_ , Galahad almost said. Instead he put the skillet in the sink and got another one onto the stove for the pancakes. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” She came a little closer. “I…can I have some?”

“It’s your food,” Galahad said. He picked up a ladleful of batter, then put it down. Turned around. “Jesus Christ, you—”

She kissed him, and it didn’t solve a damn thing, but it was pretty damn good. He kissed her back, and when they parted to catch up on breathing, he felt a little better. “You know, I fight better on a full stomach.”

“You would.” Mariette’s reply was almost playful. Her voice still was shaky, but the old her was starting to show through. “I want to eat first, too.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Galahad said, snorting. He turned back to the stove, and she opened the fridge.


	5. Squirrel Shedding Season

Tristan dimly registered the snuffling, but didn’t fully wake till the sneeze. He rolled over, hit Gawain’s shoulder, and took a moment to crawl over it before he looked down at the other man. “Cold?”

“Huh? No, ‘s fine, that’s finally gone.” Gawain’s eyes didn’t open. He just worked himself around to burrow into the pillow, one arm casually slinging over Tristan’s side. “Feather got into my nose. Think, anyway.”

A quick glance at Gawain’s other side told Tristan it wasn’t a feather; he made a note to kick out some of the squirrels in the morning. For now, he picked off the clump of fluffy fur and flicked it into the trashcan. “So you don’t need any cold medicine?”

“Only if you want me passed out all over the place again,” Gawain snorted. His arm pulled at Tristan. “Think I’m more fun when I’m awake.”

“Hmm.” Tristan ducked under the other man’s half-hearted cuff and rolled beneath the blankets till he’d once again perfectly situated himself against Gawain. They could test that out later, when they were both up.

**Author's Note:**

> Recipe used from www.kekkai.org, for _Draco’s Death by Chocolate Cake_.


End file.
